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THE   ISLE   OF  THE   SHAMROCK 


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A   Knitter   on   the   Highway 


THE     ISLE 


OF     THE     SHAMROCK 


WRITTEN    AND 
ILLUSTRATED    BY 

CLIFTON    JOHNSON 


Published  by  THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
New   York  Mcmi 

LONDON  :    MACMILLAN    AND    CO.,    LIMITED 


Copyright,  iqoi  r?    - 

by  The  Macmillan  Company       'g   g   jL 


Electrotyped 

and 

Printed 

at  the 

Norwood  Press 

Norwood,  Mass. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

is  hereby  made  to  The 
New  England  Magazine, 
The  Outlooky  The  Interior, 
Womatf  s  Home  Companion, 
The  Household,  Farm  and 
Home,  The  Springfield 
Republican,  and  the 
New  York  Evening  Post, 
in  which  periodicals  several 
chapters  included  in  this 
volume  were  first  published. 


Contents 


I.  The  Castle  of  Eloquence 

II.  A  Medieval  Brotherhood 

III.  The  Lakes  of  Killarney 

IV.  A  Mountain  Climb 
V.  In  the  Golden  Vale 

VI.  An  Irish  Writer  and  her  Home 

VII.  The  Highlands  of  Donegal 

VIII.  Peasant  Life  in  Connemara 

IX.  Jaunting-car  Journeys     . 

X.  An  Island  on  the  Wild  West  Coast 

XI.  A  Bogland  Schoolmaster 

XII.  The  Giant's  Causeway 


Page 

I 

II 

26 

54 
73 
95 
108 
140 
170 
194 
208 
234 


List    of   Illustrations 


Page 


A  Knitter  on  the  Highway         .          , 

>          • 

,  Frontispiece 

Bogland  Haystacks  . 

. 

ix 

A  Shillalah  of  the  Type  known  as  a  " 

Kippeen  " 

xii 

Looking  on    . 

>          •          i 

,          i 

Blarney  Castle                                        , 

>         • 

3 

Picnickers                                                , 

•          i 

5 

Roadside  Geese                                      , 

*          •         i 

io 

One  of  the  Elders  of  the  Monastery     , 

►          • 

ii 

Hanging  out  the  Clothes  .          .          , 

•          i 

12 

The  Monks'  Burial  Place 

>          •         < 

14 

A  Schoolroom  Corner       .          .          , 

>          •          i 

21 

Coming  in  from  the  Fields          .          , 

•         i 

•       25 

On  a  Killarney  Street        .          .          , 

9                         •                         i 

,       26 

The  Upper  Lake               •          .          , 

•                         I 

.       29 

Muckross  Abbey      .          •          •          . 

> 

.       33 

A  Town  Byway      .          .          .          , 

'                         »                          1 

37 

IX 


List  of  Illustrations 


An  Able-bodied  Beggar     . 

A  Farmyard  Pump  . 

Browsing  on  the  Bog 

A  Mountain  Peasant  Woman  and  her  Creel 

Going  to  Market     . 

A  Dwindling  Haystack     . 

An  Upland  Cottage  • 

At  the  Threshold     . 

Dispensers  of  Charity 

A  Farm  in  the  Golden  Vale 

By  the  Kitchen  Fireside    . 

Work  in  a  Potato  Field     . 

Farmyard  Ducks 

On  the  Way  to  Town 

Water  from  the  Brook 

A  Pedler  of  Distillery  Waste 

Waiting  to  be  hired 

Hungry 

The  Home  of  an  Irish  Writer 

Hearthside  Comfort  in  a  Bogland  Hotel 

Drogheda  —  An  Old  Town  Gate 

Carrying  Manure  to  the  Fields    . 

Carding  Wool 

Spinning  with  the  Great  Wheel  . 

The  Haymakers 

Covering  the  Seed  in  a  Field  sown  to  Oats 


Page 

44 
48 

53 

54 
67 

7i 
72 

73 
74 
78 
81 

85 
92 

94 
95 
96 

99 
101 

107 

108 

108 

1 10 

117 

124 

131 
lZ9 


List  of  Illustrations 


XI 


The  Usual  Substitute  for  a  Baby  Carriage 

Mowing         .... 

The  Humblest  Home  in  Ireland 

Harvest  Time 

Getting  out  Peat 

An  Inspector  of  Streets 

Journeying  on  Foot 

A  Country  Church . 

Making  a  Hay  Rope 

A  Jaunting  Car 

A  Class  in  the  Schoolyard 

The  Monks'  Fishing  House 

Cong  Marketplace  . 

Stony  Land    . 

On  an  Errand 

A  Weather-proof  Stack  of  Oats 

Goats  on  an  Achill  Hillslope 

The  Cathedral  Cliffs 

Tourists  on  a  Long  Car    . 

A  House  with  a  Turf  Roof 

On  the  Way  to  School 

A  Class  in  Reading 

The  Teacher  at  Home 

The  Schoolmaster's  Wife  . 

A  Hayfield    .  .  . 

Luckawn  National  Schoolhouse 


Page 

140 
142 
144 

154 
158 

165 

169 

170 
172 
179 

183 
186 
190 

J93 
194 

197 

200 

204 

207 

208 

211 

215 

218 

222 

233 


Xll 


List  of  Illustrations 


The  Round  Tower  at  Antrim    . 

The  Giant's  Causeway     . 

A  Gatherer  of  Winkles  and  Limpets 

The  Kitchen  Dresser 

Spring  Flowers 

The  Evening  Meal  at  the  Cottage  Door 


Page 

234 
241 

245 

252 

256 

258 


Introductory  Note 

In  one  of  his  earlier  volumes  John  Burroughs 
tells  of  a  Frenchman  who  visited  England  with  the 
intention  of  writing  a  book  about  that  country.  For 
a  long  period  he  continued  to  observe  and  collect 
material.  During  the  first  weeks  his  enthusiasm 
over  his  project  was  unbounded ;  a  year  passed  and 
he  still  thought  of  writing  a  book,  but  was  not  so 
sure  about  it ;  and  after  a  residence  of  ten  years  his 
doubts  as  to  his  ability  of  adequately  handling  the 
subject  had  so  grown  that  he  abandoned  the  scheme 
altogether.  Mr.  Burroughs's  comment  is  that,  "in- 
stead of  furnishing  an  argument  against  writing  out 
one's  first  impressions  of  a  country,  the  experience 
of  the  Frenchman  shows  the  importance  of  doing  it 
at  once.  The  sensations  of  the  first  day  are  what 
we  want,  —  the  first  flush  of  the  traveller's  thought 
and  feeling  before  his  perceptions  and  sensibilities 
become  cloyed  or  blunted,  or  before  he  in  any  way 
becomes  a  part  of  that  which  he  would  describe. " 


Xlll 


xiv  Introductory  Note 

This  defines  very  forcibly,  I  think,  the  source  of 
whatever  merit  may  have  been  attained  by  the  present 
volume,  or  by  its  predecessors  on  England  and  France. 
The  view  is  from  the  outside,  and  has  both  the  faults 
and  virtues  of  such  a  view.  It  is  a  record  of  first 
impressions  and  of  the  pleasure  in  things  novel  and 
unexpected  which  never  comes  but  once.  As  such  I 
finish  it,  trusting  that  I  may  have  succeeded  in  con- 
veying to  others  something  of  the  charm  and  interest 
that  these  scenes  and  incidents  had  for  me. 

CLIFTON  JOHNSON. 


THE   ISLE   OF   THE   SHAMROCK 


The   Isle   of  the   Shamrock 


THE    CASTLE    OF    ELOQUENCE 


T  was  the  first  gray  of  a  May 
morning,  and  the  coasting  steamer 
on  which  I  had  taken  passage  the 
H  day  before  at  Plymouth,  in  southern 
England,  was  sliding  along  up  the 
quiet  of  the  river  Lee  toward  Cork. 
The  air  was  chilly,  and  the  night  mists 
still  lingered  in  the  hollows  of  the 
green  landscape  and  floated  in  filmy 
wraiths  over  the  surface  of  the  water. 
All  the  little  steamer's  passengers  were 
astir  and  were  watching  the  scene  from 
the  upper  deck.  The  most  inter- 
ested spectators  among  us  were 
a  score  of  Irish  boys  from  her 
Majesty's  ship  Renown,  going  home  for  a  month's 
leave  of  absence  after  a  two  years'  cruise  in  the  West 
Indies.      They   wore   loose,   blue   uniforms,   and   flat 


2  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

caps  with  their  ship's  name  on  the  bands,  and  they 
carried  their  belongings  tied  up  in  colored  handker- 
chiefs or  squares  of  calico.  To  them  the  low-lying 
shores  between  which  our  boat  was  moving  were  super- 
latively beautiful.  They  eagerly  picked  out  familiar 
points  as  we  passed  them,  and  declared  that  altogether 
this  was  the  finest  sight  they  had  seen  in  their  lives. 
When  we  at  length  approached  the  dock,  their  im- 
patience to  land  was  such  that  as  soon  as  we  came 
within  jumping  distance  they  tossed  their  little  bundles 
ashore  and  made  flying  leaps  after  them.  The  officers 
of  the  steamer  declared  the  man-of-war  lads  were  as 
bad  as  a  menagerie  of  wild  animals.  Attempts  to 
restrain  them  were  wholly  futile,  and  by  the  time  the 
gang-plank  was  in  position  they  had  helter-skeltered 
off  up  the  neighboring  streets  and  alleys  and  were  lost 
to  view. 

I  followed  more  leisurely  and  prosaically,  and,  after 
breakfasting,  looked  about  the  town.  That  I  was  in 
Ireland  was  plain  from  the  start,  for  the  brogue  and 
the  peculiar  piquancy  of  the  faces  were  unmistakable. 
Then  there  were  the  women  with  shawls  drawn  over 
their  heads,  and  the  numerous  beggars,  and  the  bare- 
foot newsboys  selling  green-tinted  papers,  and  there 
was  the  omnipresent  donkey-cart,  and,  scarcely  less 
conspicuous,  that  other  distinctively  Irish  vehicle,  the 
jaunting-car,  with  the  seats  hung  above  the  wheels. 


-,*!:     -«'.  -I     IT 


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The  Castle  of  Eloquence  3 

Some  of  the  natives  were  no  better  than  walking 
scarecrows,  so  dilapidated  was  their  attire ;  yet,  as  a 
whole,  Cork  is  a  city  that  shows  evidence  of  a  good 
deal  of  business  prosperity.  A  rich  farming  region 
lies  round  about  which  reminds  one  of  England.  I 
saw  something  of  this  on  a  trip  I  made  to  Blarney 
Castle,  eight  miles  distant,  and  would  have  seen  more 
had  I  walked  as  I  at  first  planned.  But  the  day 
was  too  bright  and  warm  for  comfortable  tramping, 
and  I  went  instead  by  a  convenient  steam  tram. 

Blarney  town  is  a  small  manufacturing  place.  The 
castle,  however,  is  well  outside  the  village,  in  sur- 
roundings wholly  rural,  and  the  way  thither  is  by  a 
footpath  and  across  a  slight  wooden  bridge,  spanning 
a  swift,  clean  little  river.  The  old  fortress  stands  on 
a  low  hill,  whence  it  looks  down  on  a  broad  field  from 
amid  a  grove  of  trees.  This  field  is  used  as  a  public 
pleasure-ground,  and  rustic  seats  engird  the  bases  of 
its  noble  oaks  and  elms,  and  a  number  of  framework 
swings  have  been  erected  in  the  opens. 

The  castle  makes  an  imposing  ruin,  for  the  main 
structure  has  suffered  little  from  the  ravages  of  time 
except  that  the  roof  and  the  wooden  floors  have  fallen. 
You  can  climb  winding  stairs  and  follow  devious  pas- 
sages into  vaulted  chambers  and  chilly  cells  to  your 
heart's  content.  All  this  is  very  romantic ;  but  it  is 
worth  while  remembering  that,  in  spite  of  its  historic 


4  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

charm  and  its  strong  appeal  to  the  imagination,  the 
castle  is  a  relic  of  an  age  of  barbarism  when  the 
country  was  divided  among  many  petty  chiefs,  each 
distrustful  of  the  other,  even  when  on  terms  of  nomi- 
nal friendship.  These  dwellings  of  the  chieftains 
were  built  primarily  for  defence.  They  were  dark, 
damp,  and  cold,  and  their  thick-walled  gloom  must 
have  been  decidedly  more  prisonlike  than  home- 
like. Everything  in  their  construction  speaks  of  a 
time  of  universal  insecurity,  and  the  knightly  chiv- 
alry attributed  to  the  period  is  not  nearly  so  charac- 
teristic as  its  wanton  fighting,  robbery,  and  cruelty. 
I  could  not  help  feeling  therefore  that  Blarney  was 
better  as  a  peaceful  ruin  than  it  was  in  its  proud 
completeness  devoted  to  its  original   purposes. 

The  castle  is  many  stories  high,  and  in  the  topmost 
cornice  is  the  far-famed  Blarney  Stone  —  that  powerful 
talisman  which  you  have  only  to  kiss  to  be  endowed 
with  eloquence  for  life.  But  as  the  vertical  measure- 
ment of  the  cornice  is  about  six  feet  and  its  projection 
beyond  the  main  wall  fully  three  feet,  and  as  the  Stone 
is  at  the  bottom  of  the  cornice,  the  kissing  is  not  as 
easily  accomplished  as  might  be.  Formerly  it  was 
customary  to  lower  the  candidate  for  eloquence  over 
the  rampart,  head  foremost.  A  friend  clung  to  either 
heel,  but  at  such  a  dizzy  height  the  proceeding  smacked 
so  seriously  of  danger  that  of  late  years  the  parapet 


Picnickers 


The  Castle  of  Eloquence  5 

has  been  guarded  against  further  attempts  of  the  sort 
by  a  row  of  great  spikes. 

The  Stone  Eloquent  at  one  time  dropped  out.  It 
was,  however,  promptly  restored,  and  is  now  fixed  in 
place  by  two  heavy  iron  rods  that  clasp  it  to  the  cor- 
nice. Were  it  not  that  the  Blarney  Stone  comes  oppo- 
site one  of  the  frequent  gaps  which  alternate  with  the 
out-thrust  of  the  supporting  stones  of  the  cornice,  it 
would  be  practically  inaccessible.  As  things  are,  the 
only  way  to  bestow  the  mystic  kiss  is  to  get  down  on 
your  knees,  double  up  like  a  jack-knife,  and  crane  your 
neck  across  the  yawning  vacancy.  I  regarded  the 
Stone  with  interest  and  wished  I  was  more  of  an  acro- 
bat, or  more  courageous ;  but  I  was  deterred  by  that 
lofty  hole,  which,  though  not  much  more  than  a  foot 
broad  and  four  long,  was  still  plenty  large  enough  to 
fall  through,  and  I  decided  to  get  along  without  the 
eloquence. 

The  story  of  the  Stone  dates  back  to  the  middle 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  when  Cormac  MacCarthy  the 
Strong,  a  descendant  of  the  ancient  kings  of  Munster, 
and  builder  of  the  fortress,  chanced  one  day  to  save  an 
old  woman  from  drowning.  In  her  gratitude  the  old 
woman  offered  Cormac  a  golden  tongue  which  should 
have  the  power  to  influence  men  and  women,  friends 
and  foes,  as  he  willed.  She  told  him  to  mount  the 
keep  and  kiss  a  certain  stone  in  the  wall  five  feet  below 


6  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

the  gallery  running  around  the  top.  He  followed  her 
directions,  and  obtained  all  the  fluent  persuasiveness 
she  had  promised.  The  tale  of  this  new  accomplish- 
ment of  Cormac's  and  its  miraculous  origin  spread, 
and  the  Blarney  Stone  has  been  drawing  pilgrims 
to  itself  ever  since. 

It  is  said  that  all  the  innumerable  MacCarthys  who 
swarm  in  the  barony  are  more  or  less  descended  from 
Cormac  the  Strong,  and  that  even  the  meanest  day 
laborer  of  the  name  considers  himself  the  rightful 
owner  of  the  domain  of  Blarney.  They  have  never 
become  reconciled  to  the  fact  that  it  was  confiscated 
by  the  government,  though  two  centuries  have  passed 
since  the  authorities  took  it  in  charge  and  conveyed  it 
by  sale  to  other  hands.  Tradition  declares  that  the 
treasures  of  the  MacCarthy  family  are  sunk  under  the 
waters  of  the  Lake  of  Blarney,  which  sleeps  in  a  hollow 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  castle.  The  secret  hiding- 
place  is  supposed  to  be  known  to  only  three  Mac- 
Carthys in  each  generation,  and  the  treasures  will  be 
recovered  the  day  that  one  of  the  family  enters  into 
possession  of  the  ancestral  estate. 

While  I  was  on  the  highest  walls  of  the  castle  a  party 
of  small  girls  came  clambering  up  from  below.  They 
were  laden  with  baskets  and  bundles,  and  were  evi- 
dently on  a  picnic.  I  had  first  noticed  them  on  the 
green  before  the  castle,  where  my  attention  was  attracted 


The  Castle  of  Eloquence  7 

to  the  group  by  a  sharp  explosion  from  one  of  their 
baskets.  There  was  instant  consternation,  the  basket 
was  hastily  opened,  and  a  bottle  of  lemonade  was 
revealed  fizzing  itself  to  waste.  To  stop  the  foaming 
overflow  of  the  precious  fluid  they  drank  it,  and  thus 
to  some  degree  restored  their  equanimity. 

When  the  party  had  finished  the  ascent  of  the  wind- 
ing, irregular  flights  of  stone  stairs  to  the  top  of  the 
great  castle  walls,  they  at  once  approached  me  and 
asked  where  the  Blarney  Stone  was.  I  pointed  it  out, 
and,  one  by  one,  they  crept  up  and  hung  on  to  the 
parapet  while  they  took  a  scared,  distant  look,  appalled 
by  the  Stone's  uncanny  position,  so  far  above  the  earth 
and  separated  from  them  by  that  abysmal  gap. 

"  Mother  of  God,  and  is  that  it ! "  exclaimed  the 
oldest  girl;  and  then  the  smallest  of  the  squad,  a  child 
of  four  in  a  white  sunbonnet,  began  to  cry. 

This  overtaxed  the  emotions  of  the  others,  and  threw 
them  into  a  panic,  and  off  they  went  with  ejaculations 
and  chatter  enough  for  a  hundred.  But  when  they 
reached  the  stairway  they  paused  and  looked  down 
into  the  vacancy  where  the  roof  and  wooden  floors  had 
fallen  and  long  ago  mouldered  away  and  entirely  dis- 
appeared. Awed  by  the  vast  emptiness  of  the  space 
before  them,  one  of  the  girls  turned  to  me  with  the 
inquiry,  "  And  where  is  the  castle,  sir  ?  " 

"  It  is  right  here,"  I  responded. 


8  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

"  Sure,  then/*  said  she,  quickly,  cc  this  is  no  castle, 
sir  —  this  is  just  a  hole  with  some  walls  around  it." 

Soon  after  this  ingenuous  company  of  picnickers 
had  gone,  I  descended  also,  and  overtook  them  in  a 
path  under  the  castle  walls.  They  had  been  brought 
to  a  stop  by  another  mishap  to  their  provisions.  A 
basket  cover  had  come  off,  and  the  bread  and  butter 
and  cakes  had  gone  flying  all  over  the  premises. 
Every  soul  took  part  in  an  excited  scramble  to  the 
rescue,  and  I  arrived  just  as  the  last  of  the  food  was 
being  gathered  up  and  crammed  back  into  the  basket. 
There  were  no  lamentations.  Apparently  it  never 
occurred  to  them  that  any  harm  had  been  done. 

They  had  seen  all  they  wished  to  of  the  castle, 
though  they  declared  they  liked  it  very  well  except 
for  cc  thim  horrid  stairs,"  and  the  Blarney  Stone,  which 
they  "didn't  think  nothing  at  all  of."  Now  they 
were  betaking  themselves  to  the  green,  where  they 
piled  into  the  swings,  and  all  talked  together  all  the 
time. 

I  sat  down  near  by,  and  was  treated  like  an  old 
acquaintance.  Where  was  I  from  ?  they  asked  — 
"  America  ?  Lord  save  us  !  "  ejaculated  the  oldest  of 
the  party,  cc  and  do  you  know  Katie  Donovan,  sir  ? 
She  is  me  cousin,  and  she  is  in   America,  sir." 

They  were  much  disappointed  that  I  did  not  know 
Katie  Donovan.     At  their  request  I  pushed  them  in 


The  Castle  of  Eloquence  9 

the  swings  for  a  few  minutes.  They  were  very  appre- 
ciative.    "It  is  fine — it  is  exquishite,  sir!"  they  said. 

So  grateful  were  they  that  they  let  loose  one  of  their 
bottles  of  lemonade  into  a  glass  for  me,  and  they 
brought  me  a  plum  cake  and  a  knife  to  cut  it,  and 
requested  me  to  take  as  much  as  I  liked.  They  also 
brought  me  some  sweet  biscuits  and  candies.  In  their 
generosity  they  would  even  take  the  candies  out  of 
their  mouths  and  offer  them  to  me.  Finally  they 
gave  me  an  orange.  I  was  afraid  they  were  robbing 
themselves,  and  tried  to  refuse,  but  they  insisted  with 
the  affirmation  that  they  had  more  than  they  could  eat, 
and  if  I  didn't  take  it,  they  would  have  to  throw  it 
away,  so  they  would  ! 

Mamie,  the  youngest,  could  dance,  they  said.  "  Her 
sister  sings  the  tune,  and  she  dances  —  indeed  she 
do  ! " 

Then  Mamie  was  wheedled  and  her  sister  sang  the 
tune,  and  the  tot  shuffled  her  feet  and  bobbed  up  and 
down.  What  a  happy-go-lucky  lot  they  were,  and 
they  were  to  stay  all  day  and  not  return  to  Cork  until 
seven  in  the  evening  ! 

When  I  bade  the  little  Corkers  good-by  they  wanted 
to  know  was  I  going  to  America  now  ? 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  I  shall  go  to  Killarney  first." 

"  And  who  is  that,  sir  ?  "  asked  one  of  the  smaller 
girls.     "  I  don't  know  him,  sir  !  " 


IO 


The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 


I  parted  from  them  with  real  regret.  What  lively 
tongues,  what  quick  imaginations,  what  racy  wildness  ! 
They  had  no  need  to  kiss  the  Blarney  Stone. 


"^^.^VWS^,;.. 


•  *v//v. 


•<V.V 


»»MA«t,v 


1^  ,1'"  .-■'.'- ■'ii* 

S&s^^l.) , 

2?" 

"I 


MEDIEVAL    BROTHERHOOD 

NE  of  my  fellow-trav- 
ellers on  my  return 
journey  by  the  steam 
tramway  to  Cork  was  a  stout, 
red-faced  Catholic  priest  whose 
breath  was  odorous  of  whiskey. 
He  got  out  his  prayer-book  as  soon  as  he  had  seated 
himself,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  began  to  read. 
I  presently  spoke  to  him,  though  with  diffidence,  and 
doubtful  of  the  propriety  of  interrupting  his  spiritual 
—  or  was  it  spirituous  ?  —  meditations.  But  he 
turned  to  me  affably,  put  his  thumb  into  his  prayer- 
book,  and  entered  on  an  extended  conversation. 

It  appeared  that   his   special  hobby  was  the    Irish 
language,  than  which  he  declared  there  was  no  finer  in 

ii 


12  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

existence.  Did  I  speak  it  ?  No  ?  Ah  !  that  was  a 
pity,  but  I  could  learn  it  and  I  ought  to  begin  at 
once !  His  hopes  of  making  me  a  proselyte  appar- 
ently ran  high,  for  at  parting  he  gave  me  copies  of 
two  papers  printed  in  his  beloved  Irish,  and  a  soiled 
visiting  card,  accompanied  by  a  cordial  invitation  to 
visit  him  in  his  country  parish,  where  we  could  con- 
sider this  linguistic  topic  more  at  leisure.  There  are 
many  enthusiasts  like  him  in  Ireland,  who  are  desirous 
of  saving  the  language  from  extinction.  But  it  is 
probably  doomed,  though  strenuous  efforts  are  being 
made  to  have  it  adopted  as  a  regular  course  in  the 
government  schools.  Barely  a  sixth  of  the  population 
is  now  able  to  speak  the  ancient  vernacular,  and  even 
this  small  fraction  can  use  English,  too,  in  all  save 
very  exceptional  cases. 

The  thing  which  interested  me  most  in  my  talk  with 
the  priest  was  his  mention  of  the  fact  that,  not  fifty 
miles  distant,  on  one  of  the  lower  ridges  of  the  Knock- 
mealldown  Mountains,  overlooking  the  valley  of  the 
Blackwater,  dwelt  a  community  of  Irish  monks.  They 
have  separated  themselves  from  the  world  with  all  its 
turmoil  and  jealousies  and  follies,  and  on  the  quiet 
of  this  lonely  mountain-top  they  spend  their  allotted 
days  in  prayer  and  in  peaceful  pastoral  employment. 
The  priest  said  that  many  well-to-do  persons  resorted 
to  the  monastery  annually  to  spend  a  few  days  and 


Hanging   out   the    Clothes 


A  Medieval  Brotherhood  13 

"be  alone  with  their  Creator,"  and  he  added  that  the 
monks  had  a  school  there  which  was  not  surpassed 
anywhere.  His  regard  for  the  monks  was  unbounded, 
and,  attracted  by  his  ardent  description  of  their  vir- 
tues and  their  peculiar  habits  of  life,  I  determined  to 
make  a  pilgrimage  to  this  community  among  those 
curiously  named  mountains. 

I  reached  Cappoquin,  the  railroad  station  nearest 
the  monastery,  in  the  middle  of  a  warm  May  after- 
noon. Mt.  Melleray,  the  home  of  the  monks,  was 
three  miles  back  among  the  hills  ;  and  to  fortify  myself 
for  the  walk  thither  I  went  into  one  of  the  little  Cap- 
poquin shops  to  invest  in  a  few  sweet-cakes  for  a 
lunch.  The  woman  behind  the  counter  had  my 
purchase  partly  wrapped  up  when  another  woman 
from  the  rear  of  the  shop  called  out,  "  Stop  !  I  will  get 
the  gentleman  some  that  are  clean." 

She  took  the  place  of  the  first  woman  in  waiting  on 
me,  and  her  kindness  moved  me  to  increase  my  pur- 
chase to  the  extent  of  two  pennies  worth  of  chocolate. 

"  Ah,  sir ! "  said  she,  regretfully,  "  my  little  boy 
has  got  at  the  chocolate  and  he  has  eaten  it  all  —  the 
gossoon !  We  cannot  keep  it,  he  eats  that  much  of  it. 
He  would  eat  a  box  a  day — he  would,  sir!" 

But  that  I  might  not  suffer  in  consequence  of  her 
boy's  inroads  on  her  stock  in  trade,  she  insisted  on 
trotting   off  to    a  shop   up-street,  whence    she    soon 


14  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

returned  with  my  chocolate  wrapped  in  half  a  sheet 
of  an  old  letter. 

From  the  village  I  went  first  across  the  fields  by 
a  footpath,  then  followed  a  narrow  lane  bordered  much 
of  the  way  by  high  banks  and  walls  overgrown  with 
furze  full  of  yellow  flower-clusters.  Along  the  hori- 
zon, on  ahead,  loomed  the  blue,  serrated  ridges  of  the 
Knockmealldown  Mountains,  and  presently,  on  one 
of  their  lesser,  northern  heights,  I  discerned  the  mon- 
astery. It  consists  of  a  good-sized  group  of  substantial 
stone  buildings  with  a  slender-spired  church  in  the 
midst.  The  quiet  of  the  hamlet  when  I  entered  it 
savored  of  desertion,  and  I,  recalling  what  I  had  heard 
of  the  strange  opinions  and  life  of  its  inhabitants,  half 
fancied  the  place  was  bewitched,  and  was  tempted 
to  turn  back.  But  the  wide  door  of  the  main  build- 
ing stood  open  and  I  went  in.  One  of  the  monks 
— "the  brother  porter"  was  his  official  title — greeted 
me  pleasantly  and  was  my  guide  in  a  leisurely  ramble 
through  the  buildings,  and  my  instructor  as  to  the 
ways  of  the  community.  He  was  a  gray,  elderly  man, 
in  a  coarse,  black,  hooded  gown.  About  his  waist  he 
wore  a  leather  girdle,  and  on  his  feet  white  stockings 
and  rude,  low  shoes.  All  the  other  monks  were 
dressed  in  the  same  general  style,  except  that  cer- 
tain of  them  wore  white  gowns  with  black  scapulas. 
These   white-garbed  monks   were  the   elders,    or,    as 


The    Monks'    Burial    Place 


A  Medieval   Brotherhood  15 

they  were  called  among  themselves,  the  "  fathers  "  of 
the  order. 

The  institution  in  its  origin  dates  back  to  1833, 
when  a  group  of  Irish  monks  was  expelled  for  politi- 
cal reasons  from  the  Cistercian  monastery  at  Mt.  Mel- 
leray  in  France.  They  returned  penniless  to  their 
native  country,  and  a  nobleman  living  in  the  valley  of 
the  Blackwater  took  pity  on  them  and  gave  them  a 
tract  of  wild  land  here  among  the  hills.  They  at  once 
set  to  work  with  their  own  hands  to  reclaim  it.  For 
many  years  the  community  was  so  poverty-stricken 
that  it  had  a  hard  struggle  for  existence,  but  in  time 
it  grew  prosperous  and  independent.  The  land,  as 
the  monks  found  it,  was  a  barren  heath  full  of  stones. 
They  laboriously  dug  out  the  stones,  carted  them  off 
to  be  used  on  the  roads  or  for  building  purposes,  and 
made  the  ground  productive  by  subsoiling. 

The  task  of  reclaiming  still  goes  on,  and  I  saw  one 
of  the  fields  where  the  monks  had  been  at  work  not 
long  since.  They  had  brought  the  stones  to  the  sur- 
face in  such  quantities  that  the  earth  was  hidden  by 
them,  and  the  field  looked  like  a  dumping-place  of 
refuse  from  a  quarry.  It  seemed  impossible  that  such 
a  field  could  be  of  any  use  for  agriculture.  Certainly, 
if  the  monks  placed  any  value  on  their  time,  the  labor 
involved  must  far  exceed  in  cost  the  worth  of  the  land 
when  the  process  is  completed.     But  I  suppose  they 


1 6  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

rejoice  in  difficulties  to  overcome,  and  the  hardship 
brings  heaven  nearer. 

About  seventy  members  at  present  make  up  the 
Mt.  Melleray  brotherhood.  It  is  not  often  there  are 
so  few,  but  the  monastery  has  been  depopulated  by 
a  recent  exodus  to  establish  a  new  colony.  Several 
branches  own  this  for  their  parent  community,  includ- 
ing one  in  the  United  States,  at  Dubuque,  Iowa. 

The  Cistercians  were  a  very  powerful  order  during 
the  Middle  Ages,  and  in  the  thirteenth  century  they 
had  nearly  two  thousand  abbeys  in  the  various  coun- 
tries of  Europe.  Among  those  in  Britain  were  Tintern, 
Furness,  and  Melrose,  familiar  to  tourists  now  as  beau- 
tiful ruins.  Prosperity  proved  fatal,  for  as  the  brother- 
hood waxed  rich  the  monks  became  indolent  and 
deteriorated  morally,  and  the  result  was  that  the 
order  speedily  decayed  and  waned  until  only  remnants 
were  left. 

These  Irish  monks,  with  their  stony  land  to  subdue, 
and  with  the  memory  of  their  former  poverty  and 
struggle  for  existence  still  fresh,  seem  to  be  trying 
to  realize  the  order's  original  simplicity.  The  main 
tenets  of  the  religion,  as  exemplified  by  them,  are  a 
hermit-like  separation  from  the  rest  of  mankind,  long- 
houred  daily  devotions,  and  strict  habits  of  silence  and 
humility.  All  personal  wealth  at  the  time  of  joining 
and    all   the  products   of  the  industry   of  individual 


A  Medieval   Brotherhood  17 

members  are  turned  into  the  community  coffers. 
Henceforth  they  work  for  the  common  good,  and 
their  thoughts  dwell  on  things  eternal,  or  are  sup- 
posed to.  They  never  speak  save  when  it  is  abso- 
lutely necessary,  and  even  then  the  ordinary  members 
must  first  get  the  permission  of  one  of  the  three 
superiors  —  the  abbot,  the  prior,  or  the  sub-prior. 
The  usual  method  of  communication  is  by  signs,  and 
words  are  only  employed  as  a  last  resort.  The  only 
two  members  not  bound  by  the  rules  of  silence  are 
the  brother  porter,  who  communicates  with  visitors, 
and  the  "  procurator,"  or  housekeeper,  who  is  privi- 
leged to  speak  to  any  one  when  there  is  occasion. 

The  monks  pay  no  attention  to  visitors.  The 
weakness  of  the  flesh  may  result  in  a  sidelong  glance 
or  two  ;  but,  in  theory,  the  world  is  naught  to  them, 
and  so  long  as  you  do  not  actually  interfere  they 
go  their  appointed  ways  unconcerned  whatever  you 
may  do. 

Most  members  join  the  order  between  the  ages  of 
twenty  and  forty.  Candidates  beyond  two  score  sel- 
dom meet  with  favor,  because  it  is  believed  that  a  man 
is  by  then  too  old  and  fixed  in  his  habits  and  ideas  to 
learn  the  ways  of  the  brotherhood.  They  accept  no 
one  rashly  or  in  haste.  To  begin  with,  the  applicant 
stays  for  three  days  at  the  monastery  as  a  guest.  If 
satisfied  with  what  he  sees  and  learns  in  these  three 


1 8  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

days,  he  becomes  a  "  postulant  "  for  three  months,  and 
his  partial  adoption  is  symbolized  by  a  cloak  which 
he  wears  over  his  ordinary  worldly  garments.  After 
three  months'  experience,  if  he  continues  desirous  to  go 
on,  he  dons  a  special  habit,  more  monkly  than  he  has 
worn  hitherto,  and  for  two  years  is  a  "  novice,"  sharing 
much  of  the  community  life,  but  not  yet  taking  part 
in  all  the  exercises.  At  the  end  of  that  interval  the 
man  who  still  yearns  for  complete  monkhood  takes 
"  simple  vows  "  and  enters  on  a  final  probationary 
period  of  three  years.  This  completed,  provided  the 
monks  are  satisfied  with  the  novitiate's  character,  and 
are  convinced  of  his  sincerity,  he  may  take  solemn 
vows  and  enter  on  the  full  duties  and  joys  of  the 
order. 

So  far  as  possible  the  monks  supply  their  own  bodily 
needs  —  raise  their  own  food,  erect  their  own  buildings, 
and  do  their  own  farmwork  and  housework,  even  to 
making  bread  and  washing  clothes.  The  last-named 
task  is  done  by  steam  power,  and  is  not  as  arduous  an 
undertaking  as  it  might  be.  The  wash  is  hung  out  to 
dry  on  lines  in  a  grassy  area  near  the  church.  In  one 
corner  of  this  area  is  the  monk's  burying-ground,  where 
are  several  high  stone  crosses  commemorating  deceased 
abbots,  and  numerous  low  iron  crosses  marking  the 
resting-places  of  the  humbler  members  of  the  brother- 
hood. 


A  Medieval  Brotherhood  19 

The  monks  make  their  own  clothing  and  shoes,  and 
they  grow  on  their  own  sheep  all  the  wool  used  in  their 
garments.  The  only  process  consigned  to  outsiders 
in  the  transformation  of  the  wool  into  clothing  is  the 
weaving.  This  is  done  in  a  neighboring  mill,  but  the 
monks  hope  soon  to  run  a  loom  on  their  own  premises. 
Their  greatest  lack  is  skilled  mechanics,  and  they  are 
always  glad  to  have  such  join  their  number. 

They  have  a  large  garden  where  they  raise  vegetables 
and  small  fruits,  and  in  the  fields  they  grow  potatoes, 
oats,  turnips,  and  mangels.  For  stock  they  own,  in 
addition  to  the  sheep  already  mentioned,  a  herd  of 
cows  and  a  number  of  horses.  They  are  not  able  to 
do  all  the  work  of  the  place  unaided,  and  they  keep 
constantly  employed  about  forty  laborers  whom  they 
pay  from  nine  to  twelve  shillings  a  week.  Half  a 
century  ago  wages  in  the  region  were  only  a  sixpence 
a  day ;  but  conditions  have  much  improved  since,  and 
the  peasantry  are  decidedly  better  fed,  better  clothed, 
and  better  housed. 

Practically  everything  raised  is  consumed  on  the 
place,  and  for  income  they  depend  on  chance  sums 
donated  to  them,  on  summer  lodgers,  and  on  their 
school,  which  rarely  numbers  less  than  one  hundred, 
and  which  stands  in  high  repute  among  such  of  the 
Catholic  gentry  as  desire  an  ecclesiastical  education  for 
their  sons.     Besides  these  aristocratic  pupils  the  monks 


A  Schoolroom    Corner 


A  Medieval  Brotherhood  21 

Two  in  the  morning  is  the  monks'  time  for  rising, 
save  on  Sundays  and  holy  days,  when  it  is  an  hour 
earlier.  As  soon  as  they  are  up  and  dressed  they  file 
down  from  their  dormitory  to  the  church  for  matins. 
Religious  exercises  are  held  in  the  church  at  frequent 
intervals  all  day.  Shortly  after  matins  come  lauds, 
at  sunrise  prime,  at  eight  o'clock  thirdst,  at  eleven 
sext,  at  two  in  the  afternoon  none,  at  five  vespers, 
at  eight  compline,  and  then  they  retire.  Not  all 
can  attend  this  whole  list  of  eight  services,  for  the 
monks  are  workers  as  well  as  prayers,  and  other 
duties  keep  some  of  them  away  from  the  church 
much  of  the  day ;  but  every  one  is  present  at  the 
first  three  and  the  last. 

Following  the  religious  exercises  in  the  small  hours 
of  the  morning  the  monks  pray  privately  and  read 
and  meditate  until  it  is  time  for  the  sunrise  service. 
After  prime  they  listen  to  a  chapter  from  the  Bible 
and  to  an  exhortation  from  the  superior.  At  about 
seven  o'clock  they  assemble  for  a  "  collation."  It 
seemed  to  me  they  must  by  then  have  sharp  appe- 
tites, after  being  up  since  one  or  two  in  the  morning. 
The  dining  room,  like  all  the  monks'  apartments,  is 
immaculately  clean  and  substantial  in  all  its  appoint- 
ments, yet  at  the  same  time  is  severely  plain.  It  is 
a  high,  pillared  room,  appropriately  dim,  with  a  cruci- 
fix on  the  wall  at  the  far  end.     On  one  side  a  lofty 


22  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

pulpit,  overhung  by  a  sounding-board,  rises  well  toward 
the  ceiling,  and  around  the  borders  of  the  apartment 
are  lines  of  long,  bare  tables.  When  the  monks  have 
taken  their  places  in  the  "  refectory,"  with  the  abbot 
superior  at  the  head  of  the  table,  they  in  unison  say 
grace.  Then  they  sit  down  on  the  benches  along  the 
walls  and  at  a  signal  from  the  superior  begin  eating. 
The  pulpit  during  the  silent  meals  of  the  day  is  occu- 
pied by  one  of  the  monks,  who  reads  to  his  brethren 
from  Scriptures  or  from  some  approved  religious  work 
—  a  book  of  sermons  or  the  lives  of  the  saints.  When 
the  superior  observes  that  all  have  finished  eating,  he 
signals  again  and  the  gowned  company  rises,  says  grace, 
and  leaves  the  room. 

The  morning  collation  consists  of  milk  and  six 
ounces  of  bread,  brown  or  white  as  is  preferred. 
Those  who  choose  have  butter  with  their  bread,  and, 
instead  of  milk,  a  few  of  the  members  substitute  tea, 
cocoa,  or  even  wine.  The  noon  meal  is  the  chief 
repast  of  the  day.  The  allowance  then  is  a  pound  of 
bread  and  a  pint  of  milk,  and  there  are  potatoes  and 
other  vegetables,  and  frequently  soup  or  macaroni. 
Indeed,  except  that  the  monks  eat  no  meat,  save  when 
they  are  sick,  they  are  free  to  partake  of  whatever  their 
garden  produces  and  whatever  they  can  buy  that  is 
inexpensive.  At  six  in  the  evening  supper  is  served, 
the  principal  items  in  its  bill  of  fare  being  oatmeal  and 


A  Medieval  Brotherhood 


23 


a  portion  of  bread  saved  from  the  dinner  allowance. 
On  occasion  a  relish  is  added  in  the  shape  of  celery, 
rhubarb,  or  gooseberries  from  the  garden,  or  perhaps 
some  preserves  that  the  monks  themselves  have  put 
up.  From  September  14th  to  Easter,  however,  this 
evening  collation  is  omitted,  but  as  during  this  pe- 
riod they  retire  to  rest  at  seven  o'clock,  I  think  the 
added  hour  of  sleep  may  somewhat  alleviate  the  inner 
vacancy. 

Manual  labor  begins  at  half-past  five  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  certain  of  the  monks  go  to  the  barn  to  feed 
the  stock  and  milk  the  cows.  All  the  brotherhood 
are  fond  of  open-air  exercise,  and  the  teachers  and  the 
father  abbot,  as  well  as  the  others,  try  to  get  out  for 
a  time  each  day,  even  if  for  no  more  than  a  half-hour 
digging  stones  from  the  land  that  is  being  reclaimed. 
For  the  field  work  their  skirts  are  not  wholly  con- 
venient, and  they  usually  take  a  reef  in  them,  and  with 
pins  or  strings  fasten  them  up  nearly  to  their  knees. 

After  the  noonday  meal  the  monks  go  to  their  cells 
to  spend  twenty  or  thirty  minutes  in  praying,  reading, 
or  sleeping.  In  warmer  climates  this  interval  would 
be  taken  for  a  siesta  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  few  of 
these  Irish  monks  care  to  sleep  in  the  middle  of  the 
day.  Their  cells,  each  containing  a  narrow  couch,  are 
in  an  upper  story  along  the  sides  of  a  long,  high  hall. 
They  are  simply  little  doorless  sections  separated  by 


24  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

slight  partitions.  There  is  just  standing-room  in  them, 
no  chair  or  surplus  furniture  ;  and  all  are  exactly  alike, 
the  father  superior's  being  no  better  than  those  of  the 
lesser  members  of  the  order. 

For  reading  the  monks  have  a  library  of  twenty-two 
thousand  volumes  to  draw  from.  It  is  largely  a  reli- 
gious library,  for  they  buy  none  of  the  current  secular 
books.  They,  however,  have  all  the  classics  and 
standard  histories,  poetry,  and  novels.  They  even 
admit  infidel  books  that  they  may  keep  posted  on  the 
wiles  of  Satan,  but  such  are  kept  under  lock  and  key 
and  are  only  read  by  special  permission. 

The  monks  rarely  go  outside  the  boundaries  of 
their  own  estate.  Trading  transactions  in  neighboring 
towns  are  intrusted  to  their  hired  help,  and  they  them- 
selves travel  only  on  ecclesiastical  business  and  in 
obedience  to  orders.  In  short,  the  monks  of  Mt. 
Melleray  are  a  community  of  religious  recluses  who 
are  as  unworldly  as  they  well  can  be.  I  doubt  if  they 
take  any  newspapers  or  know  anything  about  the 
movements  of  life  outside  their  walls.  But  the  brother 
porter  was  an  exception.  His  connection  with  the 
world  was  kept  up  through  his  intercourse  with 
visitors,  and  he  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  affairs  of 
the  nations,  and  had  many  questions  to  ask. 

Just  how  much  the  monastery  helps  its  inmates 
toward    godliness,  I   am    uncertain.     It   is    retired  — 


A  Medieval  Brotherhood 


25 


away  from  turmoil  and  many  temptations ;  yet  in 
what  I  saw  of  the  monks  it  seemed  to  me  they  still 
had  our  common  human  nature  with  all  its  earthiness. 
Probably  they,  like  the  rest  of  us,  fall  far  short  of 
their  ideals ;  for  only  the  rarest  natures,  in  monas- 
teries or  out  of  them,  attain  to  anything  approaching 
unsullied  spirituality. 


U^BIIIIIIiUlMI 


mm,"-** 


Ill 


THE    LAKES    OF    KILLARNEY 


HE  Lakes  of  Killarney — 
there  is  something  melt- 
ing and  delicate  about  the 
phrase  that  draws  one 
strangely.  It  has  a  mel- 
ody that  charms  with  a 
vague  suggestion  of  gen- 
tle, dreamy  landscapes, 
eaceful  waters,  and  mild 
ue  mountains. 

suppose    when    the 
gination      has      dwelt 
long  on  the  fascina- 
tion    of      a     place 
beforehand,  there  is 
bound  to  be  a  cer- 
tain  degree  of  dis- 
appointment in  seeing  the  reality ;   but  at   Killarney 
the  combination  of  lakes  and  streams,  mountains  and 

26 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  27 

varied  foliage,  is  so  fine  that  even  in  one's  fancy  it 
could  hardly  be  more  attractive.  The  lakes  are  three 
in  number,  each  with  a  character  and  beauty  of  its 
own,  and  the  only  serious  fault  I  had  to  find  was 
that  they  were  too  much  shut  away  from  the  public 
by  the  bordering  estates  of  the  gentry.  One  of  these 
estates  —  that  of  a  Mr.  Herbert  —  had,  at  the  time 
of  my  visit,  recently  come  on  the  market,  and  was  the 
subject  of  a  good  deal  of  newspaper  comment,  both 
in  Britain  and  America.  The  items  and  the  headlines 
not  infrequently  gave  the  impression  that  the  lakes 
themselves  were  to  be  sold,  and  that  this  single  estate 
held  them  all  within  its  boundaries.  The  fear  was 
expressed  that  the  domain  would  pass  into  the  hands 
of  speculators,  and  be  exploited  as  a  vulgar  commer- 
cial show  place,  or,  worse  still,  that  it  would  be  pur- 
chased by  some  aristocrat  who  would  exclude  outsiders 
altogether.  EfForts  were  made  to  have  the  govern- 
ment buy  the  estate  and  convert  it  into  a  public  park ; 
and  when  this  project  failed,  the  suggestion  was  offered 
that  the  Irish  in  America  might  unite  in  contributing 
the  needful  sum,  and  do  themselves  honor  by  turning 
the  domain  over  to  their  homeland  for  a  national 
pleasure-ground. 

The  estate  is  hardlv  as  vital  as  would  be  inferred 
from  much  that  was  published ;  yet  it  includes  nearly 
all  of  the  middle  lake  and  a  considerable  strip  along 


28  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

the  east  shore  of  the  lower  lake.  I  heard  the  laboring 
folk  speak  of  Mr.  Herbert  as  a  good  landlord  and 
employer,  and  they  all  regretted  his  financial  embar- 
rassment, and  looked  forward  to  a  change  of  pro- 
prietors with  misgiving.  Whenever  they  mentioned 
his  having  "gone  broke,"  I  noticed  they  added  the 
information  that  he  had  an  American  wife  whom  he 
had  married  for  her  beauty,  wholly  reckless  of  the  fact 
that  she  did  not  possess  wealth.  It  seemed  to  be 
taken  for  granted  that  such  a  match  on  the  part  of  a 
British  subject  of  the  upper  classes  was  very  unusual 
and  unwise,  and  the  dismal  sequel  was  held  to  be  a 
natural  consequence. 

The  lakes  lie  in  a  basin  between  several  mountain 
groups,  and  they  convey  an  impression  of  permanence 
and  of  age  coeval  with  that  of  the  heights  which  over- 
look them.  A  native  of  the  region,  however,  informed 
me  there  once  were  no  Lakes  of  Killarney  at  all.  Where 
they  now  are  was  just  a  low  valley,  and  in  the  valley 
were  farms  and  a  town.  Unluckily,  one  of  the 
dwellers  in  the  vale  had  a  charmed  well.  Still, 
everything  was  all  right  if  he  kept  it  covered  nights, 
and  this  he  took  great  care  to  do.  But  late  on  a  cer- 
tain evening,  after  the  owner  of  the  well  had  gone  to 
bed,  a  neighbor  visited  it,  drew  a  bucketful,  and  went 
away  without  restoring  the  cover.  The  next  morning  a 
great  river  was  pouring  out  of  the  well,  and  the  farms 


The    Upper    Lake 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  29 

and  the  town  were  fathoms  deep  under  water.  There 
they  are  to  this  day,  and  when  conditions  are  favorable, 
the  old-time  houses  of  the  vale  can  be  clearly  seen  at 
the  bottom  of  the  lakes,  and  so  can  the  charmed  well. 
Into  it  runs  one  stream,  and  out  of  it  runs  another  — 
at  least,  that  was  the  story  as  it  was  told  me. 

My  acquaintance  with  the  lakes  began  with  an  ex- 
tended walk  along  their  eastern  side.  Killarney  town, 
on  their  northern  borders,  was  my  starting  point,  and 
I  continued  to  the  opposite  end  of  the  group,  ten 
miles  southward.  Around  the  large  lower  lake  is  a 
pleasant,  alluvial  country  of  gentle  slopes,  where  the 
grass  flourishes,  and  the  trees  grow  spreading  and 
stately.  But  of  this  I  saw  less  than  I  could  wish,  for 
the  ribbon  of  winding  roadway  which  I  followed  was 
so  hemmed  in  by  the  walls  of  the  adjoining  estates 
of  the  aristocracy,  that  I  might  almost  as  well  have 
been  in  a  tunnel.  Not  until  the  middle  lake  was  half 
passed  did  I  find  freedom.  Then  the  wayside  walls 
dwindled  and  disappeared,  and  the  road,  instead  of 
being  crowded  far  back  from  the  shore  by  the  broad 
parks  of  the  gentry,  came  down  to  the  borders  of 
the  water. 

The  landscape,  meanwhile,  had  undergone  a  change, 
and  was  wrinkled  into  little  hills  that  constantly  grew 
more  rugged,  and  the  shade  trees  gave  way  to  wild 
forest  growths  that  had  an  almost  tropical  luxuriance. 


3<D  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

There  were  beeches,  elms,  and  oaks  clad  in  their  spring 
greens,  and  there  were  pines  and  drooping  larches. 
Ivy  vines  crept  up  the  tall  tree  trunks,  and  the 
ground  was  hidden  by  a  tangle  of  dark,  glossy  holly 
and  arbutus.  I  doubt  if  any  woodland  rivalling 
this  in  rich  and  varied  profusion  exists  in  all  Britain. 
The  forest,  however,  is  not  extensive,  and  after  a 
few  miles  the  trees  are  less  lofty  and  less  exuberant, 
and  I  found  little  left  of  the  woods  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  upper  lake  save  stunted  and  infrequent  patches 
growing  among  the  rude  gray  crags  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  ridges.  Where  there  was  soil  here,  it  was 
mostly  a  barren  heath  or  a  peaty  bogland ;  but  in  the 
rocky  ravines  were  streams  of  crystal  as  refreshing  as 
they  were  pellucid,  and  I  could  hear  the  pleasant  sound 
of  distant  waterfalls.  Best  of  all,  the  waste  was  wholly 
unfenced,  and  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  my  wan- 
dering through  it  at  will,  and  getting  all  the  changing 
views  the  region  afforded.  I  enjoyed  this  thoroughly, 
and  by  the  time  I  was  ready  to  turn  back  I  had  con- 
cluded that  the  little  upper  lake,  with  its  many  islets 
and  irregular  shores  and  wild  surroundings,  was  the 
most  satisfying  of  the  three. 

On  all  the  long  road  I  had  come  there  had  been 
scarcely  a  village  worthy  the  name,  and  even  the 
cottages  were  infrequent.  I  saw  few  people,  and  the 
busiest  scene  was  on  a  spongy  peat  moss  where  several 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  31 

groups  were  getting  out  their  year's  supply  of  fuel. 
Four  or  five  men  composed  each  gang.  One  of  them, 
using  a  spadelike  cutter,  dug  out  the  long,  soggy 
bricks  of  peat ;  another  with  a  fork  tossed  them  up 
on  the  turf  as  fast  as  cut ;  and  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany, also  armed  with  forks,  spread  the  sods  to  dry. 

Instead  of  returning  as  I  came,  I  took  a  side  way, 
and  paid  a  shilling  at  a  lodge  gate  for  the  privilege  of 
following  a  devious  road  across  several  bridges  and 
large  islands  through  the  Herbert  estate.  At  length 
I  was  again  on  the  main  land  and  had  before  me  the 
ruins  of  Muckross  Abbey  —  a  great  ivy-grown  church 
minus  roof  and  windows,  but  otherwise  practically 
complete.  It  had  a  fine  situation  on  a  hill,  with  the 
lake  in  sight  not  far  away,  and  the  peaks  of  the  big 
mountains  looming  across  the  water.  Close  about  was 
a  burying-ground  where  rest  the  remains,  if  tradition 
is  to  be  trusted,  of  many  Irish  kings  and  chiefs.  The 
churchyard  continues  to  be  used  as  a  place  of  inter- 
ment, and  white  modern  crosses  are  mingled  with 
gray  moss-grown  slabs,  many  of  the  latter  fallen  and 
worn  blank  by  the  storms  of  the  passing  years.  The 
usual  place  of  burial  now  is  on  the  south  and  east  sides, 
for  the  north  is  regarded  as  the  Devil's  side,  and  on  the 
west  are  buried  only  unbaptized  children,  soldiers,  and 
strangers. 

Within  the  abbey  are  many  dim  vaults  and  passages 


21  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

and  several  great  halls  open  to  the  sky,  in  which  are 
graves  and  sombre  tombs  and  headstones.  One  clois- 
tered court  contains  a  yew  tree  grown  to  maturity  with 
branches  reaching  out  so  thickly  over  the  upper  walls 
that  scarcely  more  light  comes  from  above  than  if  the 
room  had  a  roof.  Naturally  a  tree  so  strangely  placed 
has  its  mystic  attributes,  and  the  saying  is  that  whoever 
takes  a  twig  from  the  venerable  yew  will  die  within  a  year. 
A  century  ago  a  hermit  by  the  name  of  John  Drake 
lived  in  the  abbey  for  the  space  of  eleven  years.  By 
covering  an  open  cell  of  one  of  the  upper  apartments 
with  fragments  of  tombs  and  coffins  he  protected  him- 
self against  the  inclemencies  of  the  weather  and  made 
himself  a  home.  He  acquired  a  wide  reputation  for 
piety  and  for  a  demeanor  that  combined  solemnity  and 
cheerfulness.  Pilgrims  were  in  the  habit  of  coming 
from  a  considerable  distance  to  do  penance  at  Muck- 
ross  Abbey,  and  they  exhibited  their  devotion  to  the 
saint  of  the  place  by  going  around  the  building  a  cer- 
tain number  of  times  reciting  prayers.  The  neighboring 
peasantry  supplied  the  hermit  with  food,  and  everything 
was  quite  idyllic,  until  he  was  seen  reeling  intoxicated 
among  the  graves,  and  it  was  discovered  that  the  holy 
man  was  given  to  solitary  whiskey  indulgences.  In 
consequence  the  superstitious  veneration  of  the  Kil- 
larney  folk  and  pilgrims  diminished,  and  one  night 
the  hermit  left  for  parts  unknown. 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  33 

The  final  touch  is  given  to  the  story  by  the  relation 
that,  some  years  later,  a  lady  speaking  with  a  foreign 
accent  arrived  at  Muckross  accompanied  by  two  ser- 
vants who  knew  no  English  whatever.  She  asked 
many  questions  about  the  hermit,  passed  some  weeks 
in  praying  and  weeping  over  his  stony  couch,  and  then, 
after  distributing  alms,  went  away  never  to  return. 

When  I  reached  my  hotel  in  Killarney  town  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  long  day's  tramping,  I  was  weary 
enough  to  find  it  a  very  welcome  haven.  It  was  a 
humble  establishment  on  one  of  the  town  byways  ;  yet, 
in  spite  of  certain  drawbacks,  there  was  something 
about  it  decidedly  congenial  and  interesting.  It  was 
a  good  place  to  see  life  and  to  meet  everyday  people, 
and  this  went  far  toward  palliating  its  shortcomings. 
Of  these  I  will  not  make  a  list  further  than  to  say 
that  my  room  was  a  mixture,  very  characteristic  of  Ire- 
land, of  attempts  at  tidiness  and  of  what  was  pretty 
closely  related  to  dowdyishness  and  dirt;  and  the 
kitchen,  of  which  I  had  glimpses  as  I  went  in  and 
out,  appeared  not  to  have  been  cleaned  or  put  in 
order  for  a  month ;  while  the  hotel  parlor  looked  like 
an  asylum  for  second-hand  furniture. 

I  was  sitting  in  this  parlor  one  evening  when  my 
landlady  requested  me  to  vacate  in  favor  of  two  men 
who  wanted  to  talk  over  a  marriage  which  they  hoped 
to  consummate  between  their  children.     Nearly  all  the 


34  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

Irish  marry  young,  and  among  the  poorer  class  they 
do  so  quite  improvidently,  with  no  question  as  to  how 
rude  the  new  home  must  be,  and  how  barren  its  furnish- 
ings, and  how  meagre  the  prospect  of  income.  Those 
who  have  property,  however,  do  not  make  matrimonial 
alliances  without  careful  calculation.  A  hotel  is  very 
apt  to  be  chosen  as  a  convenient  meeting-place  for  the 
parents,  and  there  they  discuss  the  matter  of  dowry  at 
great  length,  and  the  marriage  depends  more  on  their 
amicable  agreement  than  on  the  love  of  those  most 
concerned.  Indeed,  the  match  is  frequently  made  by 
the  elders  before  the  young  people  have  settled  it 
themselves.  The  respective  fathers  haggle  over  what 
they  will  give  with  all  the  adroitness  at  their  command, 
each  trying  to  make  as  good  a  bargain  as  he  can.  If 
they  fail  to  agree,  they  may  call  in  a  mutual  friend  to 
arbitrate ;  but,  more  likely,  when  one  or  the  other  con- 
cludes his  companion  will  not  donate  enough,  he  goes 
elsewhere  to  seek  some  parent  more  liberal,  and  the 
difference  of  a  cow  or  a  donkey  or  so  often  breaks 
off  a  match. 

Most  of  the  day  following  my  walk  to  the  upper 
lake  I  spent  in  rambling  through  the  town.  There 
were  several  streets  of  shops,  but  nearly  all  these  shops 
were  small  and  the  majority  of  them  looked  cheap  and 
slovenly.  Shabby  buildings  were  common,  and  on  the 
by-lanes    were    frequent    low    cottages    with    thatched 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  3$ 

roofs.  The  town  forms  part  of  the  Kenmare  estate, 
and  about  a  century  ago  it  was  entirely  rebuilt  by  the 
lord  of  the  soil.  He  was  careful  to  have  garden  space 
behind  each  house,  but  in  the  leases  omitted  to  prohibit 
the  use  of  this  space  for  other  purposes.  The  tenants, 
therefore,  took  advantage  of  their  liberty,  and  the 
meagre  bits  of  ground  intended  only  for  lawn  or  tillage 
were  soon  sublet  and  built  over  with  hovels.  Irish 
landlords  everywhere  have  the  greatest  difficulty  in 
preventing  a  mischievous  subdivision  of  holdings. 
The  tenantry  persist  in  this  practice  even  to  the  starv- 
ing point,  and,  aided  by  dirt  and  shiftlessness,  they 
quickly  transform  what  is  planned  to  be  a  model  vil- 
lage into  a  rookery. 

Killarney  is  a  place  of  some  five  or  six  thousand 
inhabitants,  yet  in  some  ways  it  was  as  rustic  as  any 
farm  hamlet.  Cows,  goats,  and  fowls  of  various  sorts 
were  familiar  features  of  its  streets,  and  went  in  and  out 
the  houses  with  surprising  freedom.  It  was  clear  that 
the  townsfolk  lived  on  hardly  less  intimate  terms 
with  the  farmyard  creatures  than  did  their  brethren  in 
the  country.  Once,  as  I  passed  a  corner  saloon,  I  saw 
a  party  of  geese  (not  human  ones)  waddle  in  with  an 
air  of  frequenters  of  the  place  which  was  emphasized 
by  their  crooked  gait.  They  looked  this  way  and 
that,  and  I  thought  cast  thirsty  glances  at  the  array 
of  bottles    on   the   shelves,    and   then,    no    bartender 


36  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

chancing  to  be  present,  began  nosing  about  the  saw- 
dust-sprinkled floor. 

The  cows  enlivened  the  town  ways  with  their  com- 
ing and  going  every  morning  and  every  evening.  At 
this  season  of  the  year  they  spent  most  of  their  time 
in  the  fields,  and  after  each  milking  they  were  driven 
back  to  their  pasturage.  Their  owners  had  stalls  for 
them  near  their  dwellings,  in  which  the  creatures  were 
kept  in  winter. 

The  costumes  of  the  women  of  the  laboring  class 
added  a  good  deal  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  town. 
When  near  home  they  appeared  on  the  street  bare- 
headed, and  on  more  extended  errands  they  donned  an 
old  shawl.  If  the  weather  was  chilly,  they  pulled  the 
shawl  about  their  faces  and  looked  out  on  the  world 
from  its  hooded  seclusion.  Women  with  bare  feet 
were  common,  and  even  those  who  wore  shoes  did  not 
always  esteem  it  necessary  to  have  on  stockings. 

One  feature  of  Killarney  that  was  particularly  notice- 
able when  I  was  there  was  the  number  of  broken 
windows  right  through  the  town,  both  in  dwellings 
and  in  shops.  It  gave  the  place  a  depressing  air  of 
poverty,  decay,  and  drunkenness.  In  explanation 
of  this  wreckage  I  was  informed  that  a  county  council 
election  had  recently  taken  place. 

"  Ah,  we  had  hot  work  here,  we  did  that ! "'  was  the 
comment. 


A   Town   Byway 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  37 

In  most  districts  of  Ireland  the  election  had  passed 
off  peacefully  enough ;  for  nearly  everywhere  the 
national  party  was  so  dominant  that  no  outside  oppo- 
sition existed,  and  the  contest  was  between  two  home- 
rulers.  Thus  it  was  all  in  the  family,  and  there  were 
no  very  marked  explosions  of  partisan  ardor. 

But  at  Killarney  the  rivals  were  a  home-ruler  and  a 
unionist,  and  resort  was  had  to  methods  of  dealing 
with  political  heresy  that  in  most  places  are  now  be- 
coming a  little  old-fashioned.  As  a  matter  of  course, 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  patriots  on  both  sides  was 
braced  with  drink,  and  the  persuasiveness  of  ardent 
spirits  was  used  freely  on  the  doubtful  ones  to  make 
clearer  to  them  the  way  they  should  vote ;  but  this 
was  not  all.  On  Easter  Sunday  the  home-rulers 
gathered  for  a  rally  on  the  public  square,  where  they 
had  erected  a  platform.  The  speaking  had  begun  and 
everything  was  moving  smoothly  when  the  unionists 
made  a  descent  on  the  meeting,  armed  with  eggs  and  a 
great  number  of  little  paper  bags  filled  with  flour.  The 
invaders  pelted  right  and  left,  aiming  more  especially 
at  the  orators  and  dignitaries  on  the  platform.  The 
air  was  full  of  yells,  and  blows  mingled  with  the  crack 
and  spatter  of  the  eggs,  and  the  soft  bursting  of  the 
flour  bags. 

The  crowd  got  well  smeared,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
bruises  of  the  hand-to-hand  hostilities,  and  the  meeting 


3  8  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

was  effectually  broken  up.  To  the  home-rulers  the 
mortification  was  the  deeper  because  this  was  the  last 
gathering  of  the  campaign  and  they  were  robbed  of 
the  chance  to  retaliate.  But  the  thing  about  the 
assault  which  grieved  them  most  was  that  the  eggs 
used  on  them  were  in  part  bought  from  their  own 
leader's  wife.  She  kept  a  poultry  yard,  and  the  even- 
ing before  had  unsuspiciously  sold  to  the  enemy  all 
the  eggs  she  had  on  hand  —  some  eight  or  ten  dozen. 

During  my  stay  in  Killarney  there  was  a  funeral 
in  one  of  the  thatched  cottages  on  a  lane  neighboring 
my  hotel.  I  was  not  as  close  and  personal  a  witness 
of  it  as  I  could  wish,  but  it  served  to  set  my  landlady 
talking,  and  I  learned  a  good  deal  about  Irish  funeral 
customs.  The  body  of  the  deceased,  from  the  time 
of  death  until  it  leaves  the  house  for  burial,  lies  in 
state  in  the  "best"  room,  which  means  the  kitchen  in 
the  average  home.  It  is  wrapped  in  a  shroud,  face  un- 
covered, on  a  table  lightly  sprinkled  with  salt.  Flowers 
decorate  the  shroud  if  the  body  is  that  of  a  child  — 
otherwise  ribbons  —  black  ribbons  for  a  married  person 
and  white  for  unmarried. 

Such  tables  and  other  articles  of  furniture  as  are 
not  immediately  required  are  piled  up  on  the  bed,  and 
forms  are  brought  from  the  nearest  public  house  to 
help  seat  the  numerous  company  certain  to  be  at  the 
wake.     Two  candles  are  kept  burning  on  each  side  of 


The   Lakes  of  Killarney  39 

the  departed  one's  head,  and  it  is  deemed  imperative 
that  these  shall  not  be  in  common  tin  or  iron  candle- 
sticks, but  in  the  aristocratic  brass  ones  of  the  olden 
time.  Rather  than  do  without  brass  candlesticks  the 
bereaved  family  will  search  over  half  a  township  to 
borrow  them. 

The  funeral  expenses  are  usually  heavy  as  compared 
with  the  people's  means.  Among  other  outgoes,  a 
coffin  must  be  bought,  goods  for  the  wake  purchased, 
and  food  and  drink  provided  for  the  mourners.  The 
family  spend  freely  if  they  have  money ;  and  where 
their  poverty  is  so  pronounced  as  to  prevent  adequate 
preparations,  some  neighbor  is  pretty  sure  to  go  about 
and  take  up  a  collection  in  their  behalf. 

The  wake,  which  begins  the  night  after  the  death,  is 
in  most  instances  resumed  the  night  following,  and 
may  be  continued  three  or  even  four  nights  before  the 
funeral  takes  place,  if  the  fortune  of  the  deceased  will 
permit,  and  if  the  temperature  of  the  season  will  allow 
the  burial  to  be  deferred  that  long.  The  friends 
all  come,  for  to  stay  away  would  be  to  slight  the 
memory  of  the  dead.  The  house  is  much  crowded, 
and  there  are  seats  for  only  a  small  portion  of  those 
present.  Formerly  a  wake  was  apt  to  degenerate  into 
a  carousal,  no  matter  how  well  the  melancholy  proprie- 
ties were  observed  when  it  began.  But  now  the  com- 
mon feeling  is  that  for  people  to  get  drunk  on  such 


40  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

an  occasion  "  gives  a  bad  look  to  things,"  and,  besides, 
the  priests  threaten  not  to  hold  a  service  at  the  house 
if  the  mourners  at  the  wake  indulge  in  strong  spirits. 
A  sup  of  whiskey  for  those  who  want  it  is  still,  I 
believe,  not  lacking ;  yet  it  is  imbibed  sparingly,  and, 
on  the  whole,  the  gathering  is  decorous  and  quiet. 
There  may  be  some  telling  of  stories,  and  joking  in 
the  back  shed  to  while  away  the  tedium  of  the  slow 
hours,  but  it  is  never  boisterous. 

Prominent  among  the  mourners  are  the  old  women 
of  the  neighborhood.  Long  pipes  and  snuff  are  pro- 
vided for  them,  and  they  are  given  the  most  comforta- 
ble seats  around  the  fireplace.  There  they  sit  and 
puff  and  solemnly  meditate,  and  every  time  the  snuff 
saucer  is  circulated  they  each  take  a  pinch,  and  say  in 
Irish,  referring  to  the  deceased,  "  May  God  be  merci- 
ful to  his  (or  her)  soul !  " 

About  midnight  light  refreshments  are  passed,  ordi- 
narily bread  and  butter  with  tea  and  wine,  or  porter. 
After  this  repast  most  of  the  company  scatter  to  their 
homes;  but  some  linger  until  daylight,  and  a  few  elderly 
women  stay  by  the  corpse,  in  relays,  from  the  death 
until  the  funeral. 

There  is  seldom  any  keening  at  the  wakes  now,  save 
in  out-of-the-way  villages.  Usually,  the  only  lamenta- 
tions are  the  words  that  the  old  women  address  spon- 
taneously to  the  corpse.     Suppose  the  deceased  is  a 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  41 

young  man,  and  an  old  woman  comes  in  and  stands 
looking  down  to  view  the  remains.  She  says,  "  Wisha, 
sure,  'twas  well !  I  knew  your  father,  and  'twas  he 
was  the  dacint  man ;  and  little  I  thought  I'd  see  you 
lying  there  to-day ;  and  sure  'twas  yoursilf  was  the 
dacint  boy  !  'Tis  well  I  remimber  when  I  used  to 
rock  you  in  the  cradle  mesilf;  and  sure  I  expicted 
'twas  you  who'd  be  at  my  wake  instead  of  my  comin' 
to  lament  over  you  !  " 

If  it  was  an  aged  person  who  had  died,  the  woman 
would  say,  "God  be  merciful  to  you,  and  God  be  with 
the  ould  times  !  Sure,  'tis  many  the  long  day  we've 
had  together !  But,  sure,  God's  will  be  done ;  we'll 
all  have  to  go  the  same  road  some  day  !  " 

The  old  woman  also  addresses  words  of  comfort  to 
members  of  the  family  of  the  departed,  as,  for  instance, 
these  to  a  mother  who  has  lost  a  little  girl.  "You 
mustn't  be  frettin'  now,  poor  woman.  'Tis  well  for 
you  to  have  the  little  angel  gone  to  heaven  before  you. 
Look  at  the  way  I  lost  my  poor  little  Johnny ;  and, 
sure,  hadn't  I  to  bear  it ;  and  wasn't  he  the  strong  b'y 
when  he  wint  on  me  ?  What  loss  is  yours,  after  all, 
compared  with  others  I  could  name  !  Look  at  Mary 
Nolan,  poor  woman,  and  hadn't  she  to  put  up  with 
the  loss  of  the  provider  of  the  family  ?  So  you 
mustn't  be  frettin'  now,  agra  !  That  little  angel  will 
be  intercedin'  for  you  in  the  next  worruld ! " 


42  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

When  there  Is  keening  an  old  woman  sits  rocking 
back  and  forth  at  the  foot  of  the  corpse,  her  face  cov- 
ered with  her  hands.  "Och  hone!  why  did  you  die?" 
she  chants,  and  continues  with  dirgelike  cadence,  in 
a  long  lamentation  that  in  part  mourns  the  death, 
and  in  part  exalts  the  virtues,  of  the  departed.  At  fre- 
quent intervals  in  this  monody  she  breaks  out  into 
a  keen  —  a  wail  thrice  repeated  in  which  her  compan- 
ions join.  Some  old  women  become  experts  in  the 
art  of  keening,  and  are  called  on  to  be  chief  mourners 
at  all  the  wakes  throughout  their  home  region. 

Fifty  years  ago  the  merits  of  a  man  who  died  were 
celebrated  with  much  emphasis  on  his  valor  in  the 
fights  of  the  local  clans,  and  it  was  recalled  with  pride 
how  well  he  wielded  the  blackthorn  in  his  day.  Nearly 
every  neighborhood  had  its  "  factions  "  then,  each  with 
a  leader  who  was  its  champion  fighter.  Fortunately, 
the  dispositions  of  the  members  of  opposing  factions 
were  not  so  warlike  that  enemies  fought  indiscrimi- 
nately wherever  they  met.  It  was  mainly  when  the 
people  got  together  in  force  at  the  fairs  or  the  markets 
that  there  was  trouble.  They  only  needed  to  drink  a 
bit  and  they  wanted  to  try  their  strength  on  each  other. 
If  a  row  did  not  occur  naturally,  some  man  would  take 
off  his  coat,  trail  it  in  the  dust,  and  dare  any  one  to  step 
on  the  tail  of  it.  This  provocation  never  failed  of  its 
purpose,  and  you  would  hear  the  sudden,  startling  yells 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  43 

ringing  through  the  town  calling  together  the  partisans, 
and  then  there  would  be  "  a  wild  whirl  of  shillalahs,  and 
God  knows  what ! '  Some  of  the  combatants  would 
have  to  be  carried  home,  possibly  maimed  for  life,  or 
even  to  die.  Feuds  were  handed  down  from  generation 
to  generation  ;  yet  fights  seldom  occurred  without  the 
participants  first  having  their  valor  strengthened  by 
whiskey,  and  tales  are  told  of  encounters  on  the  sea- 
shore where  the  tide  has  come  in  and  drowned  those 
that  have  fallen  in  the  fray  too  drunk  to  rise. 

The  shillalah  was  the  only  weapon  considered  en- 
tirely orthodox  in  these  combats.  It  derives  its  name 
from  a  famous  wood  in  County  Wicklow,  where  the 
best  oaks  and  blackthorns  for  its  making  are  reputed 
to  grow.  The  old-time  peasantry  were  very  careful  in 
selecting  a  weapon,  and  also  in  its  preparation  after  it 
was  cut  from  hedge  or  woodland.  The  usual  mode 
was  to  rub  it  over  repeatedly  with  butter  and  place  it 
up  the  chimney,  where  it  was  left  for  several  months. 
Shapes  varied,  but  the  favorite  style  was  that  of  a  cane 
three  or  four  feet  long.  Occasionally  a  man  would 
arm  himself  with  a  shillalah  having  a  length  of  eight  or 
ten  feet,  known  as  a  "  wattle,"  or  with  what  was  called 
a  "  kippeen  "  —  a  short  club  that  had  a  burly  knot  on 
the  end.  This  last  was  the  deadliest  of  the  three,  but 
could  not  be  carried  with  the  innocent  appearance  of  a 
staff,  as  could  the  other  two. 


44  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

That  the  aggressive  use  of  the  shillalah  is  of  the  past 
is  witnessed  by  the  fact  that  at  the  wakes,  instead  of 
a  paean  over  a  dead  warrior,  there  is  substituted  the 
praise  of  a  good  father.  "  'Twas  he  who  reared  his 
children  well,"  cries  the  keener,  "the  quite  (quiet) 
poor  man  —  sure,  you  wouldn't  know  whether  he  was 
there  or  not ! "  That  is,  he  never  made  his  presence 
a  disturbing  factor  in  his  home. 

Killarney  has  the  name  of  being  a  place  where 
the  beggars,  by  reason  of  their  numbers  and  their  per- 
sistence, make  a  real  pest  of  themselves.  But  while  I 
was  there  I  encountered  only  one  genuine  specimen 
of  the  genus.  I  suppose  it  was  as  yet  too  early  in 
the  tourist  season  for  visitors  to  be  numerous,  and 
the  beggars  had  not  begun  to  ply  their  trade  in 
earnest. 

My  beggar  was  a  man  accompanied  by  a  little  boy. 
I  had  started  for  a  walk,  and  he  overtook  me,  and  re- 
marked on  the  fineness  of  the  weather,  though  it  looked 
very  threatening  at  the  time,  and  then  he  kept  on  with  me 
for  a  mile  or  more.  His  tongue  wagged  unceasingly, 
and  he  commented  on  what  was  to  be  seen  along  the  way, 
on  the  condition  of  Ireland,  of  England,  and  of  Amer- 
ica, and  wove  into  it  all  the  tale  of  his  own  troubles, 
—  how  he  was  a  shoemaker,  but  could  find  no  work 
these  two  years,  how  he  had  been  evicted,  and  how  he 
had  this  little  boy  and  four  other  children  to  provide 


An   Able-bodied   Beggar 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  4j 

for,  and  would  I  be  good  enough  to  help  them  a  bit  to 
get  some  food,  etc.,  etc. 

After  the  beggar  left  me  I  went  on  along  the  lakes. 
The  air  darkened  as  I  proceeded,  and  I  could  see 
that  a  storm  was  brewing  among  the  mountain  peaks. 
Presently  there  came  a  report  of  distant  thunder,  and 
a  little  girl  whom  I  met  at  the  moment  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross  and  hurried  on  faster.  I  stopped  and 
watched  the  clouds  in  doubt;  but  the  storm  seemed  to 
be  swinging  off  in  another  direction,  and  I  walked  on 
again,  intending  to  climb  one  of  the  mountains  and  see 
the  country  from  the  heights. 

At  length  I  took  a  road  that  wound  high  up  the 
slopes  of  the  hills,  and  as  I  went  on  I  discovered  that 
the  rain  had  swept  over  this  portion  of  my  route  and 
the  road  grew  constantly  wetter  and  more  muddy.  I 
continued  to  ascend  until,  in  passing  along  the  borders 
of  the  last  patch  of  woods,  before  the  land  gave  way 
to  the  stony  upper  wastes  of  heather  and  furze,  I  saw 
a  tall,  tattered  man  on  ahead.  He  had  a  staff  in  his 
hand,  and  a  cloak  thrown  loosely  over  his  shoulders. 
Near  him  lay  two  dead  sheep.  I  thought  he  looked 
as  if  he  was  some  Robin  Hood  of  the  forest,  who  very 
likely  had  slain  the  creatures  and  was  going  to  bear 
them  stealthily  away,  and  for  a  moment  I  entertained 
the  fancy  that  he  might  treat  me  as  he  had  them.  He 
was  peering  about  in  a  curious  manner  that  I  could  not 


46  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

understand,  but  his  mild  greeting,  as  I  drew  near,  reas- 
sured me.  The  dead  sheep,  he  said,  had  been  killed 
by  the  lightning,  and  he  had  just  found  them  there. 
He  showed  me  some  scorched  streaks  on  their  bodies, 
and  when  I  resumed  my  walk  and  left  him,  he  still 
hovered  around  the  spot,  as  before,  considering  what 
was  to  be  done. 

The  road  now  faded  into  a  dim,  grassy  trail,  leading 
away  across  a  boggy  level  to  a  steep  slope  that  mounted 
high  toward  the  craggy  mountain  summits.  I  was 
crossing  this  marshy  stretch  when  another  shower  ap- 
proached. Behind  me  the  landscape  was  being  fast 
enveloped  in  murky  blue  mist,  and  a  sombre  twilight 
had  crept  over  all  the  earth.  I  had  a  waterproof  cape 
with  me,  and  was  about  to  put  it  on,  intending  to 
sit  down  on  some  rock  and  let  the  fast-gathering 
storm  sweep  over  me,  when  I  saw  a  woman  not  far 
ahead,  moving  orT  to  the  right,  with  a  great  bag  on  her 
shoulders.  A  glance  in  that  direction  revealed  sev- 
eral thatched  cabins  among  some  tiny  fields  on  a  low 
hillside. 

Between  me  and  this  gray,  earth-hugging  little  hamlet 
the  ground  was  a  watery,  boulder-sprinkled  bog,  which 
looked  like  a  vast  plum  pudding.  Had  the  menacing 
blackness  of  the  storm  been  less  near  and  ominous,  I 
would  have  made  a  detour.  As  it  was,  I  took  a  bee- 
line  across  the  marsh,  keeping  to  the  stones  as  much 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  47 

as  possible,  and  with  the  first  onset  of  the  rain  I 
reached  the  borders  of  the  village.  In  a  stableyard 
adjoining  a  dwelling  I  found  an  old  woman  relieving 
her  shoulders  of  a  plethoric  bag  full  of  heather,  —  bed- 
ding for  her  cow  or  goats,  I  presume,  —  and  I  con- 
cluded she  was  the  person  I  had  seen  a  few  minutes 
previous  toiling  over  the  bog.  She  readily  granted 
me  permission  to  go  into  the  house  out  of  the  down- 
pour, and  I  hastened  to  seek  the  welcome  shelter. 

When  I  stooped  through  the  low  doorway,  the  house 
interior  looked  perfectly  black,  save  for  a  feeble  gleam 
of  red  in  the  fireplace  ;  but  as  my  eyes  grew  accustomed 
to  the  gloom,  the  surroundings  gradually  disclosed  them- 
selves. The  room  was  open  above  to  the  smoke-black- 
ened rafters.  Light  entered  through  one  small  win- 
dow and  the  door.  This  door,  after  a  fashion  very 
common  in  Irish  cabin  architecture,  was  divided  hori- 
zontally in  halves,  and  while  I  was  present  only  the 
lower  half  was  closed.  The  floor,  partly  of  hard-trod- 
den earth  and  partly  of  cobbles,  was  very  uneven,  and 
nothing  set  level  on  it.  There  were  two  small  tables, 
a  dresser  sparsely  filled  with  dishes,  three  chairs,  and 
in  odd  places  about  the  floor  was  a  varied  assortment 
of  black  kettles,  pots  and  pans,  shoes  and  rubbish. 
A  good-sized  clock  was  fastened  to  the  wall,  and  ticked 
with  steady  solemnity  in  the  dusk. 

The  old  woman  had  followed  me  in  and  given  me  a 


48  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

chair,  and  had  herself  sat  down  by  the  fire.  She  was 
telling  me  how  their  clock  had  been  up  there  on 
the  wall  where  I  saw  it  for  twenty  years,  and  what 
good  company  it  was,  when  there  came  a  clap  of 
thunder. 

"  O  God  Almighty,  save  us  ! "  she  exclaimed,  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  then  bowed  forward  and 
spread  out  her  hands  in  supplication.  The  posture  was 
awkward,  perhaps,  yet  was  eloquent  of  a  childlike  fear 
and  faith.  "  God  bless  us  and  save  us,"  she  continued, 
"  and  save  his  honor  (meaning  me),  and  save  the  peo- 
ple, and  all  of  us." 

The  intonations  of  the  thunder  were  of  frequent  re- 
currence after  this,  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour,  and 
at  every  clap  the  old  woman  crossed  herself  and  prayed 
something  as  above,  though  often  mumbling  more 
which  I  could  not  catch.  The  storm  reminded  her  of 
a  story  —  she  would  like  to  know  if  I  had  heard  it, 
and  whether  I  thought  it  might  be  true  or  no. 

"  There  was  a  man,  and  he  was  workin'  in  a  field  like, 
and  it  came  on  to  thunder,  and  he  put  his  head  in  a 
hole  in  the  wall,  and  he  said,  c  God  save  what's  out  o' 
me.'  But  he  ought  to  have  prayed  for  the  whole  of 
him,  for  he  no  sooner  said  that,  than  the  wall  fell  and 
took  his  head  clean  off.  It  was  telled  to  me  that  this 
was  a  judgmint  on  the  crathur,  because  it  is  not  right 
to  pray  small,  just  for  yoursilf.     But  you  should  pray 


A   Farmyard   Pump 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  49 

large  —  to  save  us  all  —  pray  big  and  open-hearted. 
But  that  may  be  only  a  story,  sir." 

The  fire  beside  which  the  woman  sat  was  made  on 
the  floor  at  the  end  of  the  room  under  the  wide  hood 
of  a  chimney  that  flared  out  from  the  wall  about  five 
feet  above  the  blaze.  A  sooty  kettle  hung  over  the 
flames  and  simmered  cheerfully.  Now  and  then  the 
woman  reached  down  to  a  heap  of  dry  brushwood  by 
her  side,  took  up  a  few  twigs,  broke  them  across  her 
knee,  and  laid  them  on  the  coals.  If  the  fire  was  low, 
she  would  stoop  and  brighten  the  embers  by  blowing. 
It  would  flare  up  then,  and  its  light  would  shine  out 
into  the  dusky  room.  Her  supply  of  pine  twigs  she 
obtained  from  the  woodland  down  below,  where  the  vil- 
lagers were  allowed  to  gather  what  they  needed.  The 
household  store  of  peat,  their  usual  fuel,  was  gone. 
They  cut  it  on  the  mountain  a  mile  above,  and  when 
it  was  dry  carried  it  down  on  their  backs,  a  task  in 
which  both  the  men  and  the  women  shared.  No  one 
in  the  village  owned  a  horse,  and  the  only  beasts  of 
burden,  aside  from  the  human  ones,  were  two  donkeys. 
Even  for  them  the  task  of  bringing  the  "turf"  down 
from  the  mountain  was  thought  too  severe,  the  path 
was  so  steep  and  rugged,  and  they  were  chiefly  used 
"to  take  to  town  for  some  messages." 

A  good  deal  of  smoke  drifted  out  into  the  room,  and 
the  woman  explained  that  the  chimney  was  bad,  "  but 


50  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

some  days  we  haven't  a  bit  of  smoke,  and  other  days 
we  have  a  good  dale.     It's  as  the  wind  turns." 

The  woman  had  two  sons  and  a  daughter  living  with 
her,  as  she  told  me  with  a  fervent "  Thank  God  !  And 
I  had  another  son  who  wint  to  Australia,  and  for  two 
years  I  heard  from  him  regular,  and  he  sint  me  money  ; 
but  I  have  had  no  account  since,  and  I  suppose  he  is 
dead.  God  help  it,  sir !  And  I  had  a  daughter,  too, 
that  wint  to  America,  to  Worcester  it  was,  sir,  and  her 
name  it  was  Mrs.  John  Dwyer ;  but  I  have  had  no  ac- 
count from  her,  aither,  this  long  time,  and  I  suppose 
she  is  dead,  too,  sir." 

The  family  had  a  cow  and  a  calf  and  nine  or  ten 
sheep.  The  sheep  were  grazing  on  the  mountain  at 
this  season,  but  in  the  winter  they  were  kept  in  the 
walled  fields  near  the  house.  "  We  sells  the  wool," 
the  woman  said,  "  but  it  brings  no  price  at  all,  now 
—  it  do  not,  sir." 

Few  pigs  were  owned  in  the  hamlet,  but  fowls  were 
plenty,  as  I  realized  when  the  woman  stepped  outside 
for  a  moment  and  left  the  half-door  open.  Almost  at 
once  a  bedraggled  rooster  skulked  in  and  stood  with 
his  head  well  down  between  his  shoulders,  and  his  tail 
drooping  to  let  the  water  run  off.  He  did  not  look  very 
attractive,  but  a  hen,  which  seemed  to  think  his  com- 
pany desirable,  came  with  a  startling  flutter  and  cackle 
from  a  nest  in  a  room  comer,  lit  near  the  rooster,  and 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney  51 

began  looking  about  the  floor  for  something  to  eat. 
Then  a  bevy  of  geese  came  in  from  the  wet  outer 
world.  The  place  was  getting  pretty  populous,  but 
the  woman  presently  returned  and  shooed  these  two- 
legged  friends  all  out  into  the  yard  with  a  "  Begone, 
you  thieves,  you  !  " 

The  woman's  sons  were  at  work  for  one  of  the 
gentry  in  the  valley,  so  the  family  was  not  dependent 
on  the  little  farm,  and  they  ate  the  eggs  their  hens  laid, 
instead  of  selling  them  as  they  would  have  to  do,  "  if 
they  were  badly  off."  They  bought  oaten  meal,  and 
occasionally  fish  and  bacon,  and  they  made  a  trifle  of 
butter  now  and  then  for  home  use,  and  raised  a  few 
cabbages  and  enough  potatoes,  in  a  good  season,  to  last 
through  the  year.  As  soon  as  the  potatoes  matured, 
they  dug  day  by  day  what  they  needed  for  immediate 
eating,  and  just  before  the  winter  set  in  placed  the 
residue  in  a  pit  to  which  they  had  access  in  renewing 
the  household  supply. 

"  If  it  is  wet,"  explained  the  old  woman,  "  or  the 
blight  do  come  too  soon,  the  p'taties  do  not  last,  and 
thin  we  eats  bread;  and  our  crops  do  none  of  thim  do 
well  unless  we  have  the  sun  —  the  foine  time,  sir ! ,! 

However,  they  fared  much  better  than  when  she 
was  a  "  gaffer  "  (a  girl  of  ten  or  twelve).  "  Thin  the 
times  was  tight,  and  we  lived  on  p'taties  altogither. 
Sometimes  we  ate  thim  with  only  salt,  and  sometimes 


52  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

we  ate  thim  with  milk.  We  niver  had  bread  ixcipt 
at  Christmas,  and  very  little  mate  at  all." 

Continuing  her  story  of  the  local  life,  the  old 
woman  said  that  for  the  cattle  they  raised  hay  and 
oats,  "and  we  might  have  plinty  of  provender,  by 
the  will  of  God,  if  it  was  not  for  the  deer  comin* 
here  from  the  forest.  There  do  be  ony  amount  of 
thim  crathurs  back  here  on  the  mountains.  They 
gets  into  the  corn  and  spoils  it  on  us.  Every  night 
now,  when  the  stalks  gets  big,  the  deer  come  and  do 
be  atin'  them  so  the  corn  will  not  be  worth  the  cuttin\ 
They  feeds  on  our  grass,  too,  when  it  gets  Strang." 

On  Sunday  all  the  mountain  folk  go  to  mass  at 
Killarney,  four  miles  distant.  Winter  or  summer,  it 
makes  little  difference.  "All  the  people  around  go, 
sir,  except  it  may  be  those  who  are  too  old  or  feeble." 

I  mentioned  the  fact  that  Ireland  had  no  snakes, 
and  the  woman  said,  "You  have  them  in  your  coun- 
try, I  believe,  sir,  and  I  suppose  they'd  eat  a  person 
nearly,  sir." 

While  we  were  talking  the  daughter  of  the  house 
came  in  very  wet  with  the  rain,  and  the  mother  got 
up  and  had  her  sit  by  the  fire.  A  great  long-legged 
dog  had  entered  with  the  daughter,  and  after  shaking 
himself  vigorously,  and  sending  the  water-drops  flying 
all  around  the  room,  he,  too,  drew  near  to  the  fire,  and 
his  damp  fur  was  soon  steaming  in  the  heat. 


The  Lakes  of  Killarney 


S3 


As  I  was  leaving,  the  old  woman  said,  "  You  are  an 
Irishman,  sir,  I  suppose  ?  " 

My  negative  seemed  to  surprise  the  two  women 
greatly,  for  they  said  one  to  the  other,  "  God  help  us, 
but  he  looks  like  an  Irishman,  does  he  not,  now  ? " 

When  I  stepped  outside  I  found  the  water  still 
dripping  from  the  eaves  of  the  thatch,  but  the  storm 
was  over,  and  by  the  time  I  was  well  started  on  my 
way  toward  the  valley  the  sun  came  out.  It  silvered  the 
green-isleted  lakes  far  down  below,  and  even  brought 
a  faint  gleam  of  brightness  to  the  watery  heights  of 
dun-colored  heather ;  and  as  the  clouds  dissolved,  and 
the  gauzy  mists  drifted  away  from  the  blue  mountain 
peaks,  I  saw  that  their  loftier  summits  were  whitened 
with  a  film  of  snow. 


•;"'SaK5SKS 


IV 


A    MOUNTAIN    CLIMB 


^HE  weather  in  the  early 
hours  of  the  following 
morning  was  unusually 
fine.  The  blue  of  the  sky  was 
perfectly  clear  and  placid,  and 
yesterday's  storm  was  only  a 
reminiscence.  It 
had  swept  over  Kil- 
larney  town  with 
great  severity,  and 
hailstones  had  fallen 
which  the  natives 
said  were  cc  as  big  as 
small  p'taties."  But 
it  was  the  thunder 
rather  than  the  hailstones  that  had  especially  aroused 
the  anxiety  of  the  townfolk,  and  their  alarm  was  of  much 
the  same  type  as  that  I  had  witnessed  in  the  hut  on  the 
mountain.  They  did  more  praying  in  the  short  dura- 
tion of  this  one  storm  than  they  would  have  done  in 

54 


A  Mountain  Climb 


55 


six  months  of  fair  weather,  and  with  every  crash  from 
the  heavens  the  sins  of  the  whole  community  were 
repented  of  afresh. 

In  the  schools  the  approach  of  the  storm  was  heralded 
by  a  general  desire  to  scud  for  home,  where  the  chil- 
dren had  the  feeling  they  would  be  safer,  but  the  teachers 
refused  permission.  From  the  first  rumble  of  thunder 
to  the  last  the  scholars  were  so  frightened  that  study- 
ing was  out  of  the  question,  and  they  could  only  trem- 
ble and  protect  themselves  from  impending  destruction 
by  continual  crossings.  When  the  storm  passed  the 
praying  ceased,  and  I  suppose  no  more  wholesale  re- 
penting was  done  until  there  was  another  thunderstorm. 

My  purpose  to  scale  one  of  the  Killarney  moun- 
tains had  been  foiled  on  the  previous  day,  but  now  the 
clear  sunshine  and  a  fresh  breeze  encouraged  me  to 
try  again.  I  had  no  very  roseate  fancy  for  the  task  — 
a  gentler  sort  of  exercise  would  have  been  more  to  my 
liking;  yet  I  could  not  help  feeling  the  attraction  of 
those  purple  heights  that  serrated  the  whole  southern 
sky-line.  I  decided  I  must  at  least  have  a  single  ex- 
perience of  the  pleasures  and  possible  hardships. of  an 
ascent,  and  I  chose  for  my  objective,  Mt.  Mangerton, 
twenty-eight  hundred  feet  high,  an  altitude  slightly 
exceeded  by  a  rival  peak  across  the  lakes,  but  not 
attained  by  any  other  mountain  in  all  Ireland. 

The   route  to   Mangerton  passed  near  the  village 


56  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

where  I  had  been  during  the  storm  of  the  day  before, 
immediately  beyond  which,  climbing  began  in  earnest. 
The  land  upheaved  in  a  big  heathery  slope  strewn 
with  boulders  and  dotted  with  clumps  of  furze.  I 
kept  to  a  faint  path  that  followed  a  dry  watercourse 
choked  with  stones  and  bordered  on  either  side  with 
a  narrow  ribbon  of  green  turf.  In  places  the  trail  was 
so  uncertain  that  I  would  lose  it  and  get  off  among 
the  hummocks  of  the  bog,  where  the  heather  and  the 
spongy  mosses  intermitted  with  cracks  and  chasms  of 
black  mud.  Some  of  these  oozy  crevasses  I  leaped, 
some  I  went  around.  At  a  distance  the  bog  looked 
innocent  enough,  and  I  would  not  have  imagined  that 
walking  on  it  could  have  been  so  toilsome  and  con- 
fusing. It  was  always  a  relief  to  get  back  to  the  firm 
track  along  the  stony  ravine. 

A  few  goats  and  sheep  were  feeding  on  the  moun- 
tain-side, but  I  saw  no  human  life  —  not  even  a  shep- 
herd boy.  The  way  continued  steep  and  difficult,  and 
the  steady  upward  climb  was  hot  and  exhausting.  It 
would  have  been  worse  still  had  not  gathering  clouds 
occasionally  obscured  the  sun.  I  paused  often  to  rest 
and  look  back  on  the  dwindled  world  below.  There 
lay  the  lakes,  with  their  irregular  outlines  and  their 
numerous  islets,  and  there  spread  the  dusky  undula- 
tions of  the  land  through  which  crept  the  shining, 
sinuous  streams,  and  over  which  drifted  a  vast  patch- 


A  Mountain  Climb  57 

work  of  sunlight  and  cloud-shadows,  evanescent  and 
vague  as  a  dream. 

At  last  the  path  brought  me  to  a  small  lough  lying 
in  a  great,  high-cliffed  pocket  of  the  mountain-top  — 
a  sombre,  lonely  little  tarn  known  as  the  Devil's  Punch 
Bowl.  In  spite  of  its  name,  I  ventured  to  drink  from 
it,  and  found  the  water  very  pure  and  cold.  But 
back  in  the  days  when  the  O'Donoghues  were  the 
acknowledged  rulers  of  the  Killarney  country  this 
highland  pool  was  not  so  innocent.  The  story  is  that 
a  certain  chieftain  of  the  clan  was  on  familiar  terms 
with  his  Satanic  Majesty,  and  in  the  latter' s  honor  one 
time  filled  the  lake  with  whiskey.  Hence  the  name. 
Besides  being  icy  cold,  the  water  contains  no  fish,  and 
is  said  to  be  always  in  a  state  of  agitation.  The  Eng- 
lish statesman,  Fox,  swam  around  its  twenty-eight  acres 
in  1772,  and  the  natives  still  talk  of  the  exploit. 

The  Punch  Bowl  is  twenty-two  hundred  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea,  and  my  goal,  the  summit  of  Man- 
gerton,  was  somewhat  over  half  a  thousand  feet  higher. 
I  soon  resumed  climbing,  and  the  view  broadened  as 
I  went  on,  until  I  could  see  all  the  great  company  of 
mountains  round  about.  The  heavy-based  blue  peaks 
rose  on  every  side  in  vaporous  mystery,  a  conclave  of 
giants ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  there  could  hardly  be 
finer  mountains  anywhere  in  the  world. 

Shortly  after    leaving   the    Punch   Bowl,   the    path 


58  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

entirely  disappeared,  and  only  trackless  bog  lay  before 
me.  But  it  was  not  uneven  and  broken,  like  the 
bogs  lower  down.  Heavily  saturated  surface  vegeta- 
tion overspread  it,  and  the  water  spirted  from  beneath 
my  shoes  at  every  step,  almost  as  if  I  had  been  wad- 
ing through  a  shallow  pond.  I  was  rejoiced  to  find  a 
momentary  escape  from  this  watery  waste  at  the  very 
summit  of  the  mountain  in  the  shape  of  a  low  cairn 
of  stones.  Thence  I  looked  about  me  more  particu- 
larly. The  situation,  just  there,  was  not  very  impres- 
sive, for  Mangerton  has  a  rounded  top,  and  I  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  wide  plain  of  weak  grasses,  moss,  and 
stunted  heather.  Save  for  a  few  skylarks  soaring 
and  singing,  the  mountain-top  was  wholly  abandoned 
and  silent,  and  I  had  no  desire  to  linger. 

By  the  time  I  had  descended  to  the  Punch  Bowl,  a 
shower  came  drooping  across  the  sober  moorlands,  and 
I  crouched  under  some  projecting  rocks  and  waited 
for  it  to  pass.  Afterward  I  sought  out  the  mountain- 
path  by  which  I  had  come  up  and  continued  down  its 
now  moist  declivity  until  I  reached  the  level  of  the 
tiny  hamlet  off  beyond  the  marsh.  It  was  after  two 
o'clock,  and  I  had  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  cakes  I  had  carried  along  in  my 
pocket.  On  the  chance  of  getting  a  glass  of  milk  in 
the  village,  I  crossed  the  marsh  and  went  up  one  of 
the  hamlet's  rough,  narrow  lanes.     The  place  proved 


A  Mountain  Climb  59 

to  be  well-nigh  deserted,  but  the  desertion  was  tem- 
porary, not  permanent.  It  was  a  "  Holy  Day  "  — 
Corpus  Christi  —  and  nearly  every  one  had  gone  off 
to  town  to  attend  mass  and  to  trade  at  the  shops. 
Only  a  few  women  and  old  men  were  left  behind ;  for 
the  day,  as  spent  in  the  town,  meant  a  peculiarly  satis- 
factory combination  of  religion,  business,  and  pleasure, 
and  no  one  was  willingly  a  stay-at-home. 

I  walked  to  the  farther  side  of  the  village  and  back, 
and  saw  all  of  its  seven  houses.  Their  surroundings 
were  very  unkempt  and  filthy.  The  stable  yards,  with 
their  muck  and  mire,  were  right  before  the  house- 
doors,  and  the  chickens  and  other  farmyard  creatures 
wandered  about  as  they  chose,  and  were  nearly  as  well 
acquainted  with  the  family  kitchens  as  were  the  human 
inmates.  On  the  hillside  about  the  houses  were  many 
little  fields  that  looked  to  be  under  very  thorough 
tillage,  some  of  them  green  with  grass  or  oats,  while 
others,  which  had  recently  been  dug  over,  were  as  yet 
brown  earth.  Heavy  stone  walls  crisscrossed  the 
slope  in  a  small-meshed  network,  which,  nevertheless, 
failed  to  absorb  all  the  stones  the  soil  yielded,  and 
there  were  frequent  great  piles  in  the  midst  of  the 
fields. 

One  old  man,  who  closely  resembled  a  travelling 
ragbag,  greeted  me  from  a  doorway,  and  went  on  to 
say  that   he  was   eighty-eight  years    old,  and   almost 


60  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

blind.  He  had  been  a  boatman  on  the  lakes  when 
he  was  younger,  and  at  the  time  Queen  Victoria  was 
at  Killarney,  in  1861,  he  had  been  one  of  her  rowers. 
This  was  the  single  great  event  of  his  life,  and  he  dwelt 
on  it  fondly.  The  recollection  of  it  seemed  to  bring 
to  mind  his  personal  appearance,  and  to  awake  the 
feeling  that  his  clothes  were  not  all  they  should  be,  in 
consideration  of  the  dignity  conferred  by  this  long-ago 
honor.  Nothing  would  do  but  he  must  go  in  and 
tidy  up.  After  a  considerable  interval  he  reappeared, 
wearing  a  black  dress-coat  much  too  small  for  him. 
Indeed,  it  was  not  wholly  on,  but  stuck  half  way ;  and 
it  so  constrained  his  arms  that  he  could  do  little  to 
better  adjust  the  garment  himself,  and  had  to  ask  me 
for  assistance.  When  he  finally  succeeded  in  pinching 
the  coat  about  him,  he  resumed,  with  added  satisfac- 
tion, the  story  of  his  life.  But  it  soon  came  to  an 
end.  Aside  from  that  luminous  period  of  the  queers 
visit,  when  he  was  among  those  chosen  to  be  her  rowers, 
the  only  feature  of  his  experience  that  had  made  deep 
impress  was  the  increasing  blindness  of  these  sombre 
latter  years. 

I  called  again  at  the  cottage  where  I  had  been  dur- 
ing the  thunderstorm  the  day  before.  The  daughter 
was  at  home,  but  the  old  mother  had  gone  to  mass 
early  in  the  morning,  and  would  not  return  until 
evening.     I  asked  if  I  could  get  a  glass  of  milk,  and 


A  Mountain  Climb  61 

the  woman  filled  a  teacup  from  a  large  earthen  bowl 
that  had  been  on  a  shelf  in  a  dark  corner.  When 
she  handed  it  to  me  she  apologized  for  any  smoky 
taste  the  milk  might  have,  and  in  all  she  did  and 
said  my  hostess  was  thoroughly  considerate  and  kindly. 
She  was  no  longer  young,  and  she  was  homely,  and 
worn  with  rude  labor  almost  to  ugliness ;  but  she 
could  not  have  treated  me  with  more  genuine  polite- 
ness had  she  been  a  lady  in  a  mansion. 

It  was  she  who  did  most  of  the  work  about  the 
place,  for  her  brothers  were  day  laborers  in  the  valley, 
and  her  mother  was  getting  old.  "  Ah,  no,"  she  said, 
"  mother  cannot  worruk  long  together  now.  She  likes 
best  to  light  her  pipe  and  tramp  off  to  Killarney  to 
mass,  or  to  sit  on  a  bank  in  the  fields  and  smoke  there, 
and  often  she  do  lay  down  her  pipe  on  the  bank  and 
forget  it." 

I  spoke  of  Queen  Victoria's  rower,  and  the  woman 
said :  "  That  was  Daniel  Hurley.  He  was  a  good 
rower  when  he  was  young  and  Strang,  but  he's  nearly 
dark,  now,  the  poor  man  !  " 

Life  must  be  very  sober-hued,  I  thought,  in  the 
forlorn  little  hamlet ;  but  it  has  its  bright  spots,  notwith- 
standing. One  of  these  is  dancing,  a  favorite  recreation 
throughout  Ireland.  With  the  approach  of  summer, 
in  nearly  every  well-settled  region  the  young  men  join 
in  contributing  enough  money  to  put  up  a  dancing 


62  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

platform  at  some  central  place.  There  they  have 
their  jigs  each  pleasant  evening,  until  the  chill  days 
of  the  late  autumn  put  an  end  to  these  open-air 
festivities.  Then  the  scene  of  them  is  transferred 
indoors,  and  they  come  at  longer  intervals;  but  in 
some  convenient  farmhouse  a  dancing  party  is  pretty 
sure  to  gather  on  Sunday  evening,  if  on  no  other  even- 
ing of  the  week,  the  winter  through.  In  case  of  a  grand, 
all-night  ball,  a  half-barrel  of  porter  is  provided  to 
keep  up  "the  enthusiasm,  which  otherwise  would  tend 
to  flag  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 

A  place  like  the  remote  little  mountain  village  I  was 
visiting  had  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  the  summer  dances. 
The  community  was  too  small,  and  the  work  of  the 
day  too  heavy  and  prolonged.  Winter  brought  com- 
parative leisure,  and  the  able-bodied  folk  of  the  hamlet 
could  not  only  attend  the  dances  in  the  home  village, 
but  those  that  occurred  for  miles  around.  On  the 
mountain,  where  the  houses  are  all  small,  room  was 
secured  for  the  merrymaking  by  moving  out  most  of 
the  furniture.  The  music,  on  ordinary  occasions,  was 
supplied  by  some  of  the  local  youths  who  played 
the  concertina,  but  in  a  really  tony  affair  a  fiddler,  or 
perhaps  a  piper,  was  hired. 

There  was  a  curious  lack  of  animation  in  the  woman's 
voice  and  manner  as  she  told  me  about  these  rural  balls. 
I  suppose  for  her  the  days  of  sweethearts  were  past,  and 


A  Mountain  Climb  63 

that  she  no  longer  joined  in  the  dancing,  but  sat  among 
the  old  folks,  looking  on. 

When  I  prepared  to  go  on  down  the  mountain,  I 
offered  a  piece  of  silver  for  the  milk  I  had  drank. 
That  was  a  mistake.  It  hurt  the  woman's  feelings. 
The  welcome  accorded  me  had  not  been  for  money, 
but  was  an  unselfish  expression  of  hospitality.  What 
was  true  in  this  upland  home  was  true  of  the  Kerry 
peasantry  generally  —  they  like  to  have  a  stranger  come 
into  their  houses  and  sit  and  chat,  and  perhaps  have  a 
bit  to  eat  and  drink  with  them.  To  offer  pay  is  to 
destroy  the  comradeship  which  they  value  above  profit. 
This  open-hearted  friendliness  was  a  surprise  to  me, 
and  wherever  I  met  with  it,  there  was  awakened  not 
only  respect  and  warm  regard  for  my  entertainers,  but, 
to  some  degree,  for  all  Ireland. 

In  recalling  what  I  saw  of  the  tillage  about  these 
mountain  huts  at  Killarney,  I  am  impressed  with  the 
predominance  of  the  potato  plots ;  and  it  was  the 
same  in  the  poor  little  bogland  villages  everywhere  I 
travelled.  As  a  matter  of  history,  potatoes  have  been 
the  mainstay  of  Ireland  for  more  than  two  hundred 
years.  The  question  is  still  disputed  whether  they 
have  proved  a  boon,  or  a  sustainer  of  poverty  and 
wretchedness.  A  very  limited  portion  of  land,  a  few 
days  of  labor,  and  a  small  amount  of  manure  will 
create  a  stock  on  which  a  family  can  exist  for  twelve 


64  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

months.  But  the  dependence  on  a  single  crop  is  dis- 
astrous when  that  crop  fails,  as  it  naturally  must,  from 
time  to  time,  so  that  on  the  whole  it  is  to  be  regretted 
that  the  potato  has  won  such  an  exclusive  place  for  itself. 

The  potato  was  first  made  known  to  Ireland  by- 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who  owned  an  estate  on  the  south 
coast.  It  won  its  way  slowly,  and  both  in  Britain  and 
on  the  continent  was  for  some  time  cultivated  only  in 
gardens,  and  even  there  as  a  curiosity  rather  than 
as  an  article  of  food.  Presently  it  was  imagined  that 
it  might  be  used  with  advantage  for  feeding  cc  swine 
or  other  cattle,"  and  by  and  by  that  it  might  be  eaten 
by  poor  people,  and  thus  serve  to  prevent  famine  when 
the  grain  crops  failed.  Ireland  led  all  European  coun- 
tries in  the  adoption  of  the  potato  by  many  years ; 
and  it  was  from  there  it  was  introduced  into  Lanca- 
shire, about  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century,  whence 
it  spread  over  England. 

Erin's  most  distressing  experience  with  this  staple 
was  in  the  famine  years  of  1846  and  1847.  ■"  am  ac~ 
quainted  with  no  more  graphic  description  of  that 
period  —  the  darkest  through  which  the  island  has 
passed  in  centuries  —  than  is  contained  in  the  pages 
of  "  Realities  of  Irish  Life,"  by  W.  Steuart  Trench. 
His  story  is  well  worth  retelling.  Mr.  Trench  resided 
at  Cardtown,  in  Queen's  County,  where  he  had  become 
much  interested  in  reclaiming  an  extensive  tract  of 


A  Mountain  Climb  65 

mountain  land,  chiefly  of  rough  pasture  covered  with 
heather.  He  kept  no  less  than  two  hundred  laborers 
constantly  employed  in  this  enterprise  at  good  wages, 
and  the  upland  glen  where  his  mountain  property  was 
located,  with  a  clear  trout  brook  flowing  through  it  to 
enhance  its  attraction,  had  come  to  be  known  as  "  The 
Happy  Valley." 

He  accomplished  the  reclaiming  mostly  by  means 
of  the  potato,  the  only  green  crop  which  would 
flourish  on  such  ground.  Guano  had  at  that  time 
recently  been  brought  into  use  as  a  manure,  and  he 
found  it  was  particularly  suited  to  the  potato.  This 
and  lime  he  applied  liberally.  The  land  was  ploughed 
into  "lazy  beds"  —  ridges  about  five  feet  in  width, 
alternating  with  furrows.  The  potatoes  were  planted 
on  the  ridges  by  merely  sticking  the  spade  into  the 
rough  earth  and  dropping  in  the  seed  back  of  the  tool, 
where  it  remained  two  or  three  inches  beneath  the  sur- 
face, when  the  spade  was  withdrawn.  The  potatoes 
thus  treated  developed  to  perfection,  and  the  harvest 
well  repaid  all  labor  and  expense.  Meanwhile  the 
heather  rotted  under  the  influence  of  the  lime,  and  was 
transformed  with  other  abundant  vegetable  matter 
which  the  soil  contained  into  a  valuable  fertilizer. 
Finally,  in  digging  the  crop,  the  ground  was  thoroughly 
turned  and  stirred.  As  it  was  now  both  mellow  and 
greatly  enriched,  it  was  in  excellent  order  for  sowing 


66  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

grass  or  grain,  and  was  permanently  worth  twenty  times 
its  former  value. 

The  expense  of  reclamation  was  practically  defrayed 
by  the  sale  of  the  first  year's  crop  alone;  and  encour- 
aged by  success  attained  in  previous  seasons,  Mr. 
Trench,  in  1846,  planted  to  potatoes  more  than  one 
hundred  and  fifty  acres.  Everything  went  well  dur- 
ing the  early  summer,  and  in  July  the  extent  and  luxu- 
riance of  his  upland  potato  fields  were  the  wonder  of 
every  one  who  saw  them.  He  felt  certain  that  the  har- 
vest would  bring  him  at  least  ^3000.  But  on  August 
1st  he  was  startled  by  the  report  that  all  the  potatoes 
of  the  district  were  blighted.  He  immediately  hurried 
up  to  the  Happy  Valley,  and  was  relieved  to  find  his 
crop  as  flourishing  as  ever,  in  full  blossom,  the  stalks 
matted  across  each  other  with  richness,  and  promising 
a  splendid  increase.  Things  were  quite  otherwise  in 
the  lowlands,  whither  he  rode  on  his  return.  The 
leaves  of  the  potatoes,  in  many  instances,  were  withered, 
and  a  strange  stench,  such  as  he  had  never  smelled 
before,  filled  the  atmosphere  about  every  blighted  field. 
He  learned  that  the  odor  was  generally  the  first  indi- 
cation of  the  disease,  and  the  withered  leaf  followed  in 
a  day  or  two  afterward ;  lastly  the  tubers  themselves 
were  affected  and  rapidly  blackened  and  melted  away. 
Much  alarm  prevailed  in  the  country,  and  those  who, 
like  Mr.  Trench,  had  staked  a  large  amount  of  capital 


o 

h 

O 

z 
o 


A  Mountain  Climb  67 

on  the  crop  became  extremely  uneasy,  while  the  peas- 
antry looked  on,  helplessly  dismayed,  at  the  total  dis- 
appearance of  the  crop  of  all  crops  on  which  they 
depended  for  food. 

Mr.  Trench  now  went  regularly  each  day  to  his 
mountain  farm,  and  saw  it  steadily  advance  toward  a 
healthy  and  abundant  maturity  until  August  6th.  On 
that  day  as  he  rode  up  the  valley  he  was  met  by  the 
stench.  This  increased  as  he  kept  on,  until  he  could 
hardly  bear  the  fearful  smell.  The  fields  still  looked 
as  promising  as  ever,  but  he  recognized  that  their 
doom  was  sealed.  As  soon  as  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments could  be  made,  he  attempted  to  save  himself 
from  total  loss  by  converting  into  starch  as  many  of 
the  potatoes  as  could  be  rescued  from  the  impending 
decay,  but  the  sum  realized  was  more  than  counter- 
balanced by  the  expense. 

Desolation,  misery,  and  starvation  now  rapidly  af- 
fected the  poorer  classes  throughout  Ireland.  In  the 
comparatively  fertile  and  prosperous  midland  coun- 
ties there  were  few  deaths  from  actual  starvation ;  yet 
many  succumbed  to  impure  and  insufficient  diet,  while 
fever,  dysentery,  and  the  crowding  in  the  workhouse 
carried  off  thousands. 

It  took  time  for  would-be  helpers  to  realize  the 
extent  and  seriousness  of  the  catastrophe,  but  public 
relief  works  were  soon  set  on  foot  by  the  government, 


68  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

soup  kitchens  were  established,  free  trade  was  partially 
adopted,  Indian  meal  poured  into  the  country,  and 
money  was  supplied  without  limit ;  yet  still  the  people 
died.  The  trouble  seemed  to  be  that  the  sufferers 
had  neither  the  strength  nor  energy  to  seek  the  aid 
offered  even  when  it  was  near  at  hand.  Not  far  from 
two  hundred  thousand  perished  in  all,  and  as  a  result 
of  the  distress  vast  numbers  emigrated. 

A  considerable  period  elapsed  before  the  country 
recovered  from  the  disaster.  This  was  illustrated  by 
Mr.  Trench's  experience  in  Kerry,  where  he  went 
toward  the  end  of  1849,  DY  reoiuest  of  Lord  Lans- 
downe,  one  of  the  great  proprietors  of  the  county. 
The  misery  of  the  famine  years  had  been  especially 
marked  at  Kenmare.  His  lordship  had  there  an  estate 
of  sixty  thousand  acres,  lying  in  an  extensive  valley 
about  thirty  miles  long  and  sixteen  broad.  Little 
grain  was  grown  in  the  district,  and  the  portions  of 
land  reclaimed  from  the  rocky  mountains  were  so 
small  that  they  were  barely  sufficient  to  grow  potatoes 
and  turnips  enough  for  the  sustenance  of  the  people 
and  their  cattle  through  the  winter.  No  restraint  had 
been  put  on  the  subdivision  of  holdings,  and  boys 
and  girls  not  yet  out  of  their  teens  married  unchecked, 
without  thinking  it  necessary  to  provide  aught  for  their 
future  beyond  a  shed  to  shelter  them  and  a  bit  of  land 
for  a  potato  patch.     Innumerable  squatters  had  settled 


A  Mountain  Climb  69 

unquestioned  in  huts  on  the  mountain  sides  and  in  the 
remote  glens ;  and  when  supplies  ran  short,  as  they  did 
in  the  spring  or  by  the  beginning  of  summer  nearly 
every  year,  these  squatters  nailed  up  the  doors  of 
their  cabins,  took  all  their  children  along  with  them, 
and  started  out  on  a  migratory  and  piratical  expedition 
over  the  counties  of  Kerry  and  Cork,  trusting  to  their 
adroitness  and  good  luck  in  begging  to  keep  the  family 
alive  until  the  potato  crop  again  matured.  When  the 
rot  attacked  this  staple,  and  it  melted  completely  away 
before  the  eyes  of  the  people,  Kenmare  was  paralyzed. 
All  were  reduced  to  nearly  equal  poverty,  and  begging 
was  out  of  the  question.  Thus  it  happened  that  the 
wretched  dwellers  of  the  upland  huts  were  reduced  to 
dire  straits,  and  great  numbers  of  them  succumbed  to 
their  fate  almost  without  a  struggle. 

By  the  time  Mr.  Trench  came  to  Kenmare  the 
famine  was  about  over,  but  its  after  effects  were  still 
formidable,  and  the  people  were  dying  nearly  as  fast  as 
ever  of  fever,  scurvy,  and  other  complaints  within  the 
walls  of  the  workhouse.  The  workhouse  itself  was  not 
large  enough  to  accommodate  the  unfortunates  who 
flocked  to  it,  and  large  auxiliary  sheds  had  been  erected 
to  shelter  the  overflow.  About  ten  thousand  persons 
in  the  vicinity  were  receiving  relief.  Mr.  Trench  first 
gave  his  attention  to  reducing  the  crowd  in  the  poor- 
house,  and  to  this  end  promised  the  inmates  outside 


7<D  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

work  near  by  and  reasonable  wages.  His  intention  was 
to  put  them  at  draining,  subsoiling,  removing  rocks 
and  stones,  and  like  labor.  At  once  three  hundred 
gaunt,  half-famished  men,  and  nearly  as  many  women 
and  boys,  presented  themselves,  expecting  him  not  only 
to  provide  employment,  but  tools.  They  were  too 
weak  to  be  very  effective,  and  accomplished  not  much 
more  than  one-fourth  of  what  they  would  have  under 
ordinary  conditions. 

Now  that  they  had  work,  they  could  no  longer  lodge 
in  the  poorhouse,  and  their  scattered  home  huts  were 
in  most  instances  so  far  distant  that  walking  to  them 
for  housing  after  the  day's  labor  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. As  a  result,  every  cabin  in  the  town  was  packed 
nightly  with  these  unhappy  work-people,  and  they  slept 
by  threes  and  fours  together,  wherever  they  could  get 
a  pallet  of  straw  to  lie  on.  They  lived  from  hand  to 
mouth,  and  on  a  wet  day,  when  they  could  not  labor, 
nearly  one-half  of  them  were  obliged  to  return  for  the 
time  being  to  the  poorhouse,  and  the  sudden  influx 
of  such  a  body  of  famished  newcomers  created  great 
confusion.  Mr.  Trench  saw  plainly  that  this  could 
not  go  on,  and  with  Lord  Lansdowne's  approval  and 
financial  support  he  put  into  practice  another  scheme. 
He  offered  free  emigration  to  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  now  in  the  poorhouse  who  was  chargeable  to  his 
lordship's  estate.     This  was  not  wholly  philanthropy ; 


A    Dwindling   Haystack 


A  Mountain  Climb 


71 


for  though  it  was  believed  that  the  paupers  would 
gain  thereby,  it  was  also  argued  that  it  was  cheaper  to 
pay  their  passage  abroad  than  to  continue  to  support 
them  at  home.  They  were  allowed  to  select  what  port 
in  America  they  pleased,  whether  Boston,  New  York, 
New  Orleans,  or  Quebec. 

The  announcement  was  at  first  scarcely  credited. 
To  the  dwellers  of  the  workhouse  it  was  considered  too 
good  news  to  be  true.  But  when  it  began  to  be  be- 
lieved and  appreciated,  there  was  an  instant  rush  to  get 
away.  A  selection  was  made,  and  two  hundred  each 
week  were  conducted  to  Cork,  under  close  surveillance, 
to  keep  them  from  scattering,  and  were  soon  safely  on 
board  the  emigrant  ship.  They  made  a  motley  com- 
pany ;  but  notwithstanding  the  distress  of  their  circum- 
stances, they  were  in  the  most  uproarious  spirits.  There 
was  no  crying  or  lamentation.  All  was  delight  at  hav- 
ing escaped  the  deadly  workhouse.  The  majority  of 
them  spoke  only  the  Irish  language,  and  these  wild 
batches  direct  from  the  stricken  boglands  of  the  old 
country  must  have  presented  a  strange  spectacle  when 
they  landed  on  the  wharves  of  America ;  yet  Mr. 
Trench  affirms  that  nearly  all,  even  to  the  widows  and 
children,  found  employment  immediately  after  arriving, 
and  adds  that  they  have  acquitted  themselves,  in  their 
adopted  land,  most  creditably.  It  was  many  months 
before  the  desire  for  free  emigration  was  satisfied,  and 


72 


The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 


the  poorhouse  filled  as  fast  as  it  was  emptied.  In  all, 
forty-six  hundred  persons  were  assisted  across  the  sea 
from  this  single  estate,  and  very  greatly  to  its  benefit. 
It  was  no  longer  over-populated,  small  holdings  were 
combined,  and  the  tenants  were  enabled  to  win  much 
better  livings  than  had  been  possible  before. 


f/ffSl" 


IN    THE    GOLDEN    VALE 


T  did  not  look  golden  from 
my  window  in  the  second 
story  of  a  hotel  at  Kilmal- 
lock.  Down  below  was  a  rough, 
dirty  street,  wet  with  recent  show- 
ers, and  all  of  the  place  that  was 
in  sight  had  an  appearance  of 
grimy,  hopeless  decadence  which, 
unfortunately,  is  far  too  character- 
istic of  the  Irish  towns  through- 
out Erin. 

Kilmallock  was  a  fortified  town 

in  the  Middle  Ages,  and 

two   massive  towers  and 

remnants  of  the  old  walls 

are  still  standing.    In  the 

near  meadows  is  another 

reminiscence  of  medievalism,  —  the  extensive  remains 

of  a  fine  abbey  that  was  wrecked  by  Cromwell  in  the 

course  of  his  devastating  conquest  of  the  island.     The 

73 


74  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

place  has  seen  stirring  times,  and  some  of  its  days  of 
turmoil  are  yet  fresh  in  men's  memories.  A  promi- 
nent feature  of  the  chief  street  is  a  monument,  spoken 
of  by  the  inhabitants  as  a  "  Fenian  Cross,"  erected  "  in 
memory  of  the  heroic  dead"  of  1798  and  1867.  Among 
the  names  inscribed  on  the  stone  are  those  of  two  "who 
died  for  Ireland  at  Kilmallock  on  March  6th,  1867," 
and  of  three  who,  shortly  after  that  date,  "  were  done 
to  death  in  English  prisons." 

That  fatal  6th  of  March  marked  the  high-tide  of 
the  land  agitation.  The  Limerick  people  rose  to  assert 
what  they  believed  were  their  rights,  and  a  real  battle 
on  a  small  scale  was  fought  in  Kilmallock's  streets. 
The  townfolk  and  the  farmers,  to  the  number  of  two 
thousand,  armed  themselves  and  made  a  night  assault 
on  the  local  government  barracks.  But  informers  had 
given  the  constabulary  an  inkling  of  what  was  coming, 
and  they  were  on  their  guard,  and  reinforcements 
promptly  came  to  their  assistance.  For  a  time  the 
town  ways  were  full  of  uproar,  and  bullets  flew,  and 
there  was  loss  of  life  on  both  sides.  In  the  end  the 
mob  yielded  to  the  soldiery,  and  the  leaders  of  the  in- 
surrection were  apprehended  and  imprisoned,  and  some 
of  their  number  were  later  transported  to  "the  Bush  " 
in  Australia. 

There  were    similar    risings    in    other    districts,  all 
short-lived,  with  the  same  melancholy  outcome.     The 


h 

< 
I 

u 


In  the  Golden  Vale  75 

Irish  had  hoped  to  gain  successes  that  would  bring  on 
a  general  struggle,  in  which  event  they  believed  the 
Americans  would  take  their  part,  and  Erin  would  win 
its  independence.  The  rancor  of  these  conflicts  be- 
tween the  populace  and  the  government  has  not  yet 
died  out,  and  the  informers  will  be  remembered  as 
"  traitors  "  and  "  scabs  "  as  long  as  they  live.  They 
are  blacklisted,  and  are  social  outcasts  ;  they  are  handi- 
capped in  making  a  living,  and  their  sons  and  daughters 
cannot  contract  desirable  marriages. 

This  attempt  to  liberate  Ireland  originated  with  the 
"  Fenian  Brotherhood,"  a  vast  organization  that  had 
members  in  all  parts  of  the  world.  New  York  was 
the  headquarters  of  the  league.  It  had  money  at  its 
disposal,  and,  more  than  that,  soldiers  trained  by  the 
American  Civil  War.  But  all  was  not  harmony  among 
the  would-be  revolutionists,  and  their  enthusiasm  was 
not  without  alloy.  A  leader  of  the  movement  in  Dub- 
lin expressed  his  dissatisfaction  with  the  American  allies 
by  declaring  that  the  recruits  they  furnished  were  ex- 
ceedingly few,  and  that  they  were  merely  "glib  talkers, 
lavish  of  boast  and  promise,  who  did  more  harm  than 
good  by  their  glozing  words  and  scanty  deeds."  How- 
ever, preparations  went  on  apace  for  a  rising,  arms  and 
munitions  of  war  were  purchased,  military  exercises  were 
practised,  and  on  the  31st  of  May,  1866,  the  Fenians 
in  America   invaded    Canada.     They  occupied    Fort 


j6  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

Erie,  defeated  the  Canadian  volunteers,  and  captured 
some  flags.  But  the  United  States  interfered  to  en- 
force the  neutrality  of  its  frontier,  arrested  most  of  the 
leaders,  and  extinguished  the  invasion. 

The  Fenians  in  England  planned  the  capture  of 
Chester  Castle,  with  the  intention  of  seizing  its  military- 
stores.  Then  they  expected  to  cut  off  telegraphic  com- 
munications, hasten  to  Holyhead,  take  possession  of 
such  steamers  as  might  be  there,  and  invade  Ireland 
before  the  authorities  could  prepare  for  the  blow.  The 
plan,  however,  was  betrayed,  and  came  to  nothing. 

The  attempt  to  foment  a  general  rising  in  Erin 
itself  in  March,  1867,  was  hardly  more  successful. 
The  very  elements  fought  against  it,  and  snow,  rare  in 
Ireland,  fell  with  disheartening  insistence.  The  per- 
sons engaged  in  the  movement  were  either  American 
and  Irish-American  adventurers,  or  artisans,  day  labor- 
ers, and  mechanics,  generally  unprovided  with  arms 
and,  in  many  cases,  scarcely  beyond  the  years  of  boy- 
hood. The  only  military  enterprises  undertaken  by 
them  consisted  in  attacks  on  the  barracks  of  the  rural 
constabulary.  These  attacks  were  almost  without  ex- 
ception defeated,  and  as  a  rule  the  parties  dispersed  of 
their  own  accord,  or  were  made  prisoners  after  a  single 
night's  campaign.  The  rest  betook  themselves  to  the 
mountains ;  but  a  few  days  of  exposure  and  hardship, 
in  which  they  managed  to  evade  pursuit,  sufficed  to 


In  the  Golden  Vale  77 

entirely  discourage  them,  and  none  of  the  bands  long 
held  together. 

The  leaders  of  the  insurrection  were  promptly  tried 
by  a  special  commission,  and  tranquillity  for  a  time 
seemed  to  be  restored  in  Ireland.  But  the  Fenian 
Brotherhood  continued  to  exist,  and  there  was  still 
much  discontent.  Considerable  alarm  was  created  in 
England  and  Scotland  by  the  daring  of  the  league. 
An  assault  was  made  in  the  open  day  on  a  police-van 
in  Manchester,  and  the  officer  in  charge  was  killed,  and 
his  prisoners,  who  were  suspected  Fenians,  were  released. 
A  few  weeks  later  an  attempt  was  made  to  blow  up  the 
Clerkenwell  prison,  to  set  free  some  Fenians  held  there. 
But  the  explosion  failed  to  accomplish  its  purpose. 
Instead,  several  innocent  persons  were  killed,  and  the 
perpetrator  was  hanged.  Rumors  were  circulated  of 
intended  burnings  in  the  cities  and  towns,  gunsmith's 
shops  and  even  government  stores  were  broken  open 
and  pillaged,  and  there  was  for  a  time  a  vague  but 
wide-spread  feeling  of  apprehension. 

The  disestablishment  of  the  Irish  Church  in  1869 
and  the  land  act  of  1870  removed  some  of  the  griev- 
ances most  complained  of,  and  the  Fenians  became  less 
belligerent,  and  turned  their  attention  to  righting  wrongs 
by  political  agitation.  There  still  is  talk  of  war  when- 
ever English  arms  are  desperately  engaged  abroad,  but 
the  hopelessness  and  folly  of  it  are  apparent  to  all  save 


78  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

a  few  extremists,  and  the  peace  of  Ireland's  future  seems 
assured. 

To  see  the  vale  of  Limerick  in  its  cc  golden  "  aspect 
you  have  to  leave  the  town.  Then  you  find  yourself 
amid  a  wide  sweep  of  lowlands,  fertile  and  luscious  be- 
yond any  other  part  of  Ireland.  The  generous  fields 
are  bounded  by  hawthorn  hedgerows,  and  there  are  no 
bogs,  and  no  wastes  of  stony  hillsides,  which,  one  or 
both,  are  common  in  most  sections.  If  you  overlook 
the  vale  from  the  crest  of  one  of  its  gentle  undula- 
tions, and  see  the  sun  strike  down  to  the  earth  through 
a  break  in  the  clouds,  the  fields  brighten  beneath  the 
caress  of  the  warm  rays  into  a  fresh,  juicy,  lightsome 
green,  so  charming  in  color  and  suggestiveness  that  you 
feel  it  must  have  been  some  such  vision  which  inspired 
the  island's  prefix  of  "  Emerald."  The  greenness  of 
Ireland  is  not,  however,  confined  to  any  chance  play 
of  light.  Few  countries  are  more  moist  and  showery, 
and  fewer  still,  in  the  temperate  zone,  can  rival  Ireland's 
equable  freedom  from  extremes  of  heat  and  cold. 

The  Golden  Vale  is  a  great  dairy  district,  and  the 
land  is  in  the  main  devoted  to  grazing  and  to  raising 
cattle  feed.  Local  creameries  take  all  the  milk  pro- 
duced, separate  the  cream,  and  make  butter  for  the 
English  market.  Their  product  finds  a  ready  sale  at 
a  good  price,  while  the  butter  made  in  Irish  farmhouses 
is  regarded  askance,  and  not  without   reason.      The 


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O 


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El, 


In  the  Golden  Vale  79 

farmers  bring  their  milk  to  the  creameries  in  great 
clumsy  cans  known  as  "  churns,"  a  name  originating 
in  their  shape,  which  resembles  that  of  the  old  up-and- 
down  variety  of  those  articles.  A  two-wheeled  cart 
drawn  by  a  donkey  is  the  usual  conveyance.  The 
driver  may  be  the  farmer,  a  hired  man  or  boy,  or  pos- 
sibly one  of  the  women  of  the  farm  household.  When 
the  churns  are  emptied  they  are  refilled  with  skim  milk, 
which  is  taken  home  to  feed  the  calves. 

The  farms  in  southern  Ireland  vary  in  size  from  a 
few  acres  to  many  hundreds,  but  holdings  of  less  than 
fifty  acres  are  accounted  small,  while  those  rising  above 
that  number  are  spoken  of  as  large.  Land  of  excep- 
tional quality  and  placing  will  yield  a  rental  of  £2  an 
acre.  Ten  to  fifteen  shillings  is,  however,  nearer  the 
average.  Farm  homes  are  apt  to  be  unprepossessing 
and  beggarly,  even  where  the  inmates  are  well-to-do. 
The  Irish,  from  long-established  habits  or  lack  of 
pride,  seem  to  have  no  concern  as  to  the  appearance 
of  their  dwellings,  and  they  take  little  interest  in 
making  improvements,  though  this  is  partly  because 
they  in  most  cases  do  not  and  never  will  own  the 
property  they  occupy. 

The  ordinary  small  farmer  goes  to  and  from  town 
driving  a  donkey  or  a  horse  attached  to  a  springless 
and  seatless  farm  cart.  He  sits  on  one  side  just  in 
front  of  the  wheel,  with  his  legs  hanging  off  over  the 


80  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

shaft.  The  vehicle  is  diminutive,  yet  on  occasion  it 
will  accommodate  half  a  dozen  persons  in  one  position 
and  another.  Large  farmers  drive  a  jaunting-car  or 
a  trap.  When  their  wives  are  along,  the  distinction 
between  the  large  and  the  small  farmers  is  still  more 
marked,  as  the  women  of  the  former  class  are  addicted 
to  wearing  hats  and  bonnets.  Yet  such  a  test  is  not 
a  sure  one,  for  among  the  younger  women,  rich  and 
poor  alike,  the  tendency  is  to  more  and  more  recog- 
nize fashion  and  discard  the  plebeian  shawl  as  a  head 
covering. 

A  large  proportion  of  the  laborers  in  the  Golden 
Vale  come  from  the  comparatively  sterile  neighboring 
county  of  Kerry,  where  wages  are  decidedly  less.  The 
Sundays  of  March  are  the  hiring  days,  and  these  are 
marked  by  a  great  deal  of  hurly-burly  in  Kilmallock, 
which  is  the  labor  centre  for  all  the  eastern  part  of 
County  Limerick.  Hundreds  of  the  Kerry  "  boys 
and  girls "  congregate  on  its  streets  each  recurring 
Sunday,  to  bargain  for  places  with  the  farmers  who 
drive  in  from  many  miles  round  about. 

The  weather  was  showery  while  I  was  at  Kilmallock, 
but  there  were  bright  spells  intermingled,  so  that  I 
was  not  kept  indoors.  I  liked  best  to  wander  out 
into  the  farming  country.  The  people  on  the  road 
always  greeted  me  with  a  friendly  nod  and  a  "  Good 
day,"  and  I  often  talked  with  them,  and  occasionally 


By   the   Kitchen    Fireside 


In  the  Golden  Vale  81 

visited  their  homes.  One  farmer  who  entertained  me 
was  a  man  named  Lynch.  He  was  prosperous,  and 
his  farm  v/as  well-tilled,  but  his  dwelling  and  its  sur- 
roundings were  nevertheless  not  without  hints  of 
squalor.  The  farmyard  was  the  heart  of  the  establish- 
ment, with  the  house,  the  cowshed,  and  the  various 
lesser  buildings  hemming  it  in  on  three  sides.  Its 
slimy,  ill-odored  area  was  the  picking-ground  of  the 
hens  and  ducks  and  of  a  flitting  flock  of  sparrows,  and 
it  was  the  gathering-place  for  all  sorts  of  wrecked 
vehicles,  broken  tools,  and  other  rubbish.  Several 
children  were  running  about  the  farmyard  when  I 
entered  it,  and  not  far  from  the  house  door  twenty 
or  thirty  calves  were  feeding  from  a  trough. 

While  I  was  regarding  the  confusion  of  this  well- 
populated  enclosure,  a  poor  old  woman  came  groaning 
in  at  the  gate,  hobbled  along  to  the  porch,  and  rapped 
at  the  door.  The  housewife  promptly  appeared,  and 
without  a  word  stepped  past  her  caller  across  the  yard 
to  the  granary.  She  soon  returned  with  as  many 
potatoes  as  she  could  carry  in  her  hands,  and  emptied 
them  into  the  old  woman's  apron.  This  garment  was 
held  by  its  wearer  gathered  up  into  a  sacklike  receptacle 
which  was  already  half  full  before  the  potatoes  were 
added.  Apparently  the  old  woman  was  a  beggar  doing 
a  wholesale  business.  She  bestowed  a  mumbled  bless- 
ing on  her  benefactor  and  went  groaning  away. 


82  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

I  learned  later  that  mendicants  of  her  class  are  an 
accepted  Irish  institution.  Quite  a  number  of  them 
make  their  homes  in  Kilmallock,  and  each  day  leave 
their  hovels  to  scour  the  surrounding  country,  only 
taking  care  not  to  go  over  the  same  route  too  often. 
But  the  most  numerous  beggars  are  those  without 
fixed  abode.  Such  usually  spend  their  nights  at  some 
peasant's  cottage,  sleeping  by  the  fire.  In  the  morn- 
ing they  are  perhaps  invited  to  share  the  family  break- 
fast, or,  if  not  that,  will  at  least  be  allowed  the  use 
of  the  fireplace,  to  cook  whatever  they  may  choose  to 
draw  from  the  supplies  that  they  are  carrying  along. 

The  appeals  of  the  beggars  are  rarely  refused,  and 
at  one  place  they  get  potatoes,  at  another  a  little 
bread,  or  flour,  or  tea,  or  a  bit  of  money.  Their 
gatherings  are  in  some  instances  considerable,  and  they 
often  have  a  surplus  to  sell,  and  may  even  accumulate 
a  certain  wealth.  The  householders  near  Kilmallock 
expected  one  or  two  appeals  every  day,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Some  of  the  beggars  are  able-bodied  ne'er- 
do-wells  ;  but  probably  the  majority  are  no  longer 
capable  of  supporting  themselves  by  labor,  and  are 
simply  endeavoring  to  keep  for  a  little  longer  out  of 
the  dreaded  workhouse. 

Their  antipathy  to  the  workhouse,  as  far  as  con- 
cerned that  at  Kilmallock,  was  largely  a  matter  of 
sentiment,  and  not  founded  on  any  reasonable  fear  of 


In  the  Golden  Vale  83 

bodily  hardship  ;  for  the  buildings  provided  for  the  un- 
fortunates were  substantial  and  clean,  and  the  inmates 
were  well  treated.  They  are  given  plenty  of  bread, 
milk,  and  potatoes,  and  they  have  their  tea,  and  twice 
a  week  meat  is  furnished.  But  in  the  poorer  districts 
of  Ireland  the  workhouse  conditions  are  not  so  favor- 
able. Taxes  cannot  be  raised  to  properly  house  or 
feed  the  numerous  paupers,  and  they  are  very  wretched, 
and  the  sick  often  have  no  one  to  care  for  them  but 
feeble  old  women  inmates  of  the  institutions. 

Like  most  farmhouses  of  the  region,  the  Lynch 
dwelling  had  a  thatch  roof,  and  was  low  and  primitive. 
That  the  kitchen  was  the  family  living-room  was  pro- 
claimed by  the  sloppiness  of  its  rough,  cobble  floor, 
and  its  general  disorder.  All  of  one  side  was  taken 
up  by  a  wide,  open  fireplace,  with  an  accompaniment 
of  pots,  kettles,  shoes,  and  other  litter.  Conspicuous 
in  a  convenient  corner  of  the  room  stood  the  swill- 
barrel.  On  the  walls  were  hung  pieces  of  harness,  a 
tin  lantern,  a  slab  of  bacon,  and  a  variety  of  clothing, 
cooking  utensils,  and  farm  tools.  The  only  touch 
of  the  aesthetic  I  observed  consisted  in  a  decorative 
arrangement  of  dishes  on  the  dresser. 

I  passed  through  the  house  to  the  side  opposite 
that  which  opened  on  the  farmyard,  and  there  found 
a  plot  of  grass,  a  few  flowers,  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  a 
tidy  garden.     This  side  of  the  building  was  its  front, 


84  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

in  the  polite  acceptation  of  the  term  ;  but  the  mildewed 
door  and  the  mossy  pavement  leading  from  it,  half 
overgrown  with  vagrant  weeds  sprouting  undisturbed 
in  the  crevices,  showed  plainly  that  the  "front"  might 
nearly  as  well  not  have  existed. 

A  few  days  after  my  visit  at  the  Lynch  dwelling  a 
chance  shower  drove  me  to  shelter  in  another  farm- 
house, where  a  tall,  white-capped  old  woman  wiped 
off  a  backless  kitchen  chair  for  me  with  her  apron, 
and  after  remarking  she  hoped  the  weather  was  not 
"  broke,"  went  on  about  her  work.  A  brisk  fire  burned 
within  the  fireplace,  and  over  it  hung  a  big  iron  kettle, 
from  which  wisps  of  steam  were  puffing  out  around 
the  edges  of  its  cover.  A  young  woman  sat  beside 
the  fire  turning  an  iron  wheel,  and  I  at  first  imagined 
she  was  churning,  and  watched  her  for  some  time 
before  I  discovered  that,  instead,  she  was  working  a 
bellows.  Coal  is  the  usual  fuel  in  the  Golden  Vale, 
but  it  is  burned  on  the  bare  hearth,  not  in  a  grate, 
and  this  peculiar  bellows,  blowing  the  air  through  a 
pipe  that  runs  under  the  flagging-stones,  is  necessary 
to  fan  the  fire  into  brightness  and  heat. 

For  baking  purposes  peat,  or  "  turf,"  as  it  is  called, 
is  bought  from  "  hawkers,"  who  peddle  it  on  carts 
from  house  to  house.  It  comes  in  blocks,  each  three 
or  four  times  the  size  of  a  brick ;  and  a  score,  with 
an  extra  one  thrown  in   for  good   measure,  cost  six- 


-__-_J_-J 


Work  in   a   Potato   Field 


In  the  Golden  Vale  85 

pence.  Ovens  are  only  found  in  "gintlemin's"  houses. 
Farmers  and  cottagers  bake  their  bread  in  a  "  bastable," 
—  a  low,  flat  kettle  with  a  heavy  cover.  It  is  set  on 
the  coals  and  burning  turf  piled  on  top,  and  at  the 
end  of  an  hour  the  "  cake,"  in  a  single,  broad,  round 
loaf,  is  baked.  The  bread  is  rather  solid,  but  it  is 
wholesome,  and  not  unpleasant  to  the  taste. 

The  rain  was  soon  over,  and  I  was  preparing  to  go, 
when  I  happened  to  mention  that  I  was  from  America. 
The  house  inmates  had  been  friendly,  but  not  espe- 
cially sociable.  Now  there  was  a  change,  and  the  old 
woman,  intent  on  keeping  me  a  little  longer,  declared 
that  I  must  not  walk  too  much.  "  It  is  not  good  to 
do  so,  and  the  weather  soft  like,"  said  she.  "Sit 
down,  sir,  and  perhaps  you  would  take  a  glass  of 
milk,  sir/' 

The  backless  chair  which  I  had  been  occupying  was 
pushed  out  of  the  way,  and  the  best  in  the  room  was 
set  forth  —  one  so  recently  purchased  that  the  shine 
of  the  varnish  was  still  apparent  on  it.  Then  the 
old  woman  got  me  a  cup  of  rich,  sweet  milk,  and  sat 
down  to  ask  questions  about  "the  States,"  and  to  tell 
about  friends  she  had  there.  Lastly  she  spoke  of  a 
son  who  had  crossed  the  Atlantic,  long,  long  years 
ago ;  and  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes  while  she  related 
how  he  had  sickened  and  died  there.  Ah !  America 
was  a  fine  country,  but  she   did   not  think  it  was  a 


86  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

healthy  one.  The  old  woman's  interest  was  not  greater 
than  that  of  the  girl  by  the  fire,  who  herself  intended 
to  emigrate  to  America  the  next  year. 

Those  who  go,  rarely  return,  though  stragglers  come 
on  visits.  The  few  prodigals  who  settle  permanently 
in  their  native  island  usually  bring  money  with  them 
and  go  into  business.  Most  often  they  are  impelled 
by  the  desire  to  buy  back  some  little  shop  or  other 
interest  that  has  been  a  pride  of  their  families  in  the 
past,  but  which  has  been  lost  through  misfortune. 

I  was  at  Kilmallock  over  Sunday,  and  in  the  early 
morning  walked  out  to  a  country  parish  some  miles 
distant  to  attend  eight  o'clock  mass.  The  church  was 
a  plain,  spireless  structure,  ungraced  by  vines  and  un- 
shadowed by  trees,  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  hilltop 
group  of  thatched  cottages.  Neighboring  it  on  one 
side  was  a  creamery,  and  I  could  hear  the  hum  of 
machinery  and  the  puff  of  steam  the  same  as  if  it  had 
been  a  week  day.  Many  milk  carts  were  hitched  along 
the  wayside  near  the  creamery  and  in  front  of  the  houses 
adjoining  the  church,  and  there  were  numbers  of  other 
vehicles,  —  traps,  jaunting-cars,  and  heavy  farm  carts, 
with  their  accompanying  donkeys,  mules,  and  horses 
of  all  sizes,  colors,  and  conditions.  The  aspect  of  the 
village  was  more  suggestive  of  a  market  or  fair  than  a 
religious  gathering,  and  this  secular  look  was  further 
emphasized  by  a  canvas-covered  booth  open  for  busi- 


In  the  Golden  Vale  87 

ness  beside  the  churchyard  gate.  Here  were  sold 
prayer-books  and  other  Catholic  publications,  beads, 
crosses,  and  a  variety  of  gaudy  church  emblems  and 
images.  This  ecclesiastical  mart  was,  however,  tem- 
porary, and  would  be  discontinued  at  the  end  of  a  fort- 
night's special  services  that  were  being  held. 

The  interior  of  the  church  had  a  row  of  pews  along 
the  walls  on  either  hand,  unpainted,  battered,  and  dingy, 
and  in  the  broad  aisle  between  was  a  line  of  backless 
benches.  All  the  seats  were  full  when  I  arrived,  and 
many  people  stood  in  the  narrow  passages  and  in  the 
open  space  at  the  rear.  It  was  evident  that  the  women 
had  on  their  Sunday  garments,  but  many  of  the  men 
wore  their  ordinary  work  clothes  and  heavy,  dirty  shoes, 
just  as  they  had  come  from  the  milk  wagons. 

Up  before  the  altar  was  a  priest  in  a  gorgeous  yel- 
low gown,  with  an  attendant  robed  in  black  and  white. 
I  was  hardly  able  to  catch  a  word  in  the  whole  service, 
as  far  as  the  priest's  part  was  concerned,  for  he  began 
his  sentences  with  a  mumble  which  faded  rapidly  away 
into  a  nearly  inaudible  murmur.  Indeed,  I  thought  it 
all  very  perfunctory  and  meaningless,  yet  I  could  not 
help  feeling  that  it  was  satisfying  to  the  congregation. 
Their  devout  attentiveness  never  flagged,  and  they 
conned  their  prayer-books  with  exemplary  persistence. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  most  of  the  time  was  spent  in 
kneeling.       I    tried   to   accommodate    myself  to   the 


88  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

routine  of  the  service,  but  my  knees  gave  out  on 
the  hard  stone  floor,  and  I  had  to  stand,  at  the  risk 
of  appearing  heretical.  There  was  no  organ  and  no 
singing.  Country  communities  are  not  musical.  Their 
churches  have  no  choirs,  and  the  old-fashioned  people 
object  to  the  introduction  of  an  organ,  because  they 
think  its  "  noise  "  is  not  religious,  and  that  it  is  op- 
posed to  a  genuine  spirit  of  worship. 

After  mass  came  communion,  and  the  worshippers  in 
relays  went  up  to  the  front  seat  and  knelt  while  the 
priest  gave  them  each  an  indistinct  blessing,  and  ad- 
ministered a  wafer  from  a  goblet  that  he  carried.  This 
goblet  his  assistant  refilled  as  often  as  the  supply  ran 
low.  The  communicants  did  not  touch  the  wafers 
themselves,  but  opened  their  mouths,  and  the  priest 
placed  one  on  each  awaiting  tongue.  That  the  wafers 
are  the  real  body  and  blood  of  Christ  the  communi- 
cants did  not  doubt;  and  if  a  crumb  dropped,  some 
one  was  pretty  sure  to  pick  it  up  and  eat  it,  to 
get  the  benefit  of  its  mystic  virtues,  whatever  those 
might  be. 

When  the  worshippers  left  the  church,  those  who  had 
teams  betook  themselves  to  their  milk  carts  and  other 
vehicles,  and  drove  away,  while  the  rest  scattered  down 
the  roads  and  lanes  on  foot.  I  mentioned  to  a  man 
of  the  latter  class  that  the  congregation  was  a  very  full 
one ;  but  he  said,  "  Ah,  no !  that  is  nothing  at  all,  sir, 


In  the  Golden  Vale  89 

to  what  there  will  be  at  the  eliven  o'clock  mass.     There 
will  be  five  times  as  many  thin/' 

I  did  not  think  my  knees  were  equal  to  another 
service,  and  I  returned  to  Kilmallock.  In  the  after- 
noon the  town  was  well-nigh  deserted  by  the  male 
population,  who  went  harum-scaruming  off  somewhere 
in  long-cars,  jaunting-cars,  and  odds  and  ends  of  other 
vehicles,  to  see  the  favorite  Irish  game  of  hockey 
played,  or,  as  they  expressed  it,  "  to  see  the  hurrling 
match."  Sunday  is  a  holy  day  only  during  mass.  The 
rest  of  the  time  the  people  spell  it  holiday,  and  are 
ready  for  whatever  recreation  offers.  They  go  fishing, 
they  go  in  swimming,  they  play  on  the  village  greens, 
and  you  may,  on  occasion,  see  a  crowd  blackening  the 
walls  of  a  country  lane  for  half  a  mile,  watching  a  bowl- 
ing match. 

Toward  evening,  while  walking  on  the  town  out- 
skirts, I  accosted  an  elderly  farmer  who  was  standing 
meditating  in  his  potato  patch,  with  his  hands  beneath 
his  coat-tails. 

God  save  ye,"  said  he,  in  response  to  my  greeting. 
We  are  going  to  have  a  fair  day  to-morrow,  are  we 
not  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  thin,"  he  replied.  "  I  don't 
like  the  look  o'  thim  castles "  —  pointing  to  some 
snowy  cloud-banks  on  the  horizon. 

We  changed  to  the  subject  of  potatoes  —  "spuds" 


cc 
cc 


90  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

or  "  Murphys  "  he  called  them  ;  and  presently  he  sug- 
gested that  I  should  climb  the  fence  and  go  with  him 
to  his  house.  It  was  a  thick-walled,  thatched  house 
adjoining  an  old,  ivy-grown  tower  that  had  formerly 
been  a  grist-mill.  A  stream  flowed  close  by  which 
looked  peaceful  enough,  but  which  Mr.  Fennessey  — 
that  was  his  name  —  declared  sometimes  became  a  tor- 
rent in  the  winter,  and  set  back  over  the  banks  and 
invaded  his  home.  The  family  restrained  the  water 
by  banks  of  earth  as  well  as  they  could.  These,  how- 
ever, were  not  always  effective,  and  the  water  at  times 
flooded  the  lower  floors  to  the  depth  of  three  feet. 
Once  the  water  rose  in  the  night,  and  the  farmer  awoke 
in  the  morning  to  find  his  bed  afloat  and  rocking.  He 
complained  a  good  deal  of  the  condition  of  his  house, 
and  of  the  landlord's  unwillingness  to  make  improve- 
ments. At  the  same  time,  except  for  the  flooding,  he 
said  it  was  much  better  than  the  average  house  of  fifty 
years  ago. 

"  Ye  seldom  see  a  mud  house  in  the  prisent,"  he 
explained  ;  "  but  thin  they  were  common.  The  mud 
part  was  the  walls,  which  was  a  mixture  of  clay, 
rushes,  and  gravel.  A  man  in  his  bare  feet  would 
tread  it  as  it  was  put  up,  and  ivery  time  a  layer  a 
half-yard  thick  was  put  on  it  had  to  be  left  for  a  few 
days  to  dry.  Whin  it  was  high  enough  it  was  pared 
down  smooth,  and  'twas  riddy  for  the  roof,  which  in 


In  the  Golden  Vale 


91 


thim  days  was  as  like  to  be  turf  as  thatch,  with  per- 
haps an  ould  boiler  stuck  up  through  for  a  chimney. 
The  walls  wint  fast  if  the  roof  broke  a  leak,  but  so 
long  as  they  was  kep'dry  they  was  all  right.  Mud  walls 
that  ye  see  now  are  whitewashed,  and  a  stranger  such 
as  you  might  not  know  what  was  underneath.  They 
used  to  be  left  their  natural  brown  color.  The  floors, 
thim  days,  was  dirt,  and  so  they  are  now  in  our  ould 
counthry  cottages ;  but  cement  is  comin'  to  be  gineral 
in  the  towns,  though  that  wears  uneven,  too,  after  a 
while,  and  gets  broken,  in  spite  of  ye." 

We  were,  sitting  during  this  relation  in  Mr.  Fen- 
nessey's  kitchen,  a  small,  crowded  apartment,  whose 
chief  articles  of  furniture  were  a  dresser,  several  rickety 
chairs,  and  a  table  with  some  black  pots  huddled 
beneath.  A  bobtailed  hen  was  picking  about  under- 
foot, and  two  dogs  were  snoozing  on  the  borders  of 
the  fireplace. 

"  This  room  wad  be  a  big  house  intirely,  in  thim 
days  I'm  tellin'  ye  of,"  Mr.  Fennessey  continued  ;  "  and 
you'd  be  lucky  if  there  was  not  props  here  and  yon  to 
howld  up  the  rafters,  and  holes  leakin'  down,  and  a 
large  family  livin'  in  it,  too." 

Of  late  the  poorer  hovels  in  the  Golden  Vale  have 
been  largely  replaced  by  cottages  built  by  the  county. 
These,  though  small,  are  comfortable  and  substantial. 
There  are  three  rooms  below,  and,  under  the  peak  of 


92  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

the  roof  above,  are  one  or  two  more,  to  which  ascent 
is  made  by  a  narrow  stairway  very  like  a  step-ladder. 
The  rent  is  one  shilling  a  week,  and  a  half-acre  of  land 
goes  with  the  cottage,  so  that  the  tenants  can  have  their 
own  garden  and  keep  a  donkey  and  perhaps  a  goat  or 
a  little  Kerry  cow.  What  the  half-acre  patch  of  land 
lacks  in  supporting  the  creatures  can  be  made  up  by 
feeding  them  along  the  highways,  and  by  the  foraging 
of  the  children.  Some  of  this  foraging  is  not  very  sen- 
sitive to  rights  in  property,  and  I  remember  seeing  an 
undaunted  small  boy  pulling  wisps  of  hay  from  the 
outer  side  of  a  loaded  cart  in  the  publicity  of  Kilmal- 
lock's  principal  street.  The  driver  had  gone  into  a 
shop,  and  now  and  then  the  boy  paused  and  peeped 
furtively  beneath  the  wagon,  to  assure  himself  that 
the  coast  was  still  clear.  Finally,  with  his  arms  full, 
the  ragamuffin  scudded  for  home. 

The  cottagers  usually  keep  hens  and  ducks,  and  in 
some  instances  geese  and  turkeys,  and  the  fowls  and  their 
eggs  are  chiefly  sold  to  "  egg-hawkers/'  who  go  about 
buying  them  to  ship  to  England.  The  prices  realized 
are  not  what  they  might  be,  for  the  Irish  are  only  be- 
ginning to  learn  the  relation  between  price  and  quality, 
and,  as  a  rule,  their  fowls  are  of  a  small,  poor  breed. 

"  My  good  man,"  said  Mr.  Fennessey,  at  length, 
"  as  we  have  no  liquor  in  the  house,  would  you  sit 
with  us  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  ?  " 


o 

& 

Q 

o 
< 

S 

a! 

< 


(C 


In  the  Golden  Vale  93 

I  accepted  the  invitation,  and  the  wife  set  the  black 
tea-kettle  on  the  coals  and  turned  the  crank  of  the 
creaky  bellows.  Soon  we  had  gathered  around  the 
centre  table  in  the  best  room  to  a  lunch  of  bread  and 
butter  and  tea.  The  children  waited  for  second  table. 
Only  the  four  youngest  of  the  original  thirteen  were 
left.  The  rest  had  departed  from  the  parental  roof, 
and  were  scattered  far  and  wide  over  the  earth.  One 
son  was  living  in  California. 

If  you  ever  go  to  Los  Angels,"  said  my  host> 
hunt  up  John  Fennessey.  You  just  mintion  the 
ould  folks  at  Kilmallock,  and  you  will  be  sure  of  a 
warrum  wilcome." 

Mrs.  Fennessey  kept  my  cup  replenished,  even 
putting  in  the  sugar  and  stirring  it  herself.  She  took 
a  more  personal  interest  in  my  affairs  than  did  her  com- 
panion, and  early  in  our  converse  wanted  to  know  if 
I  had  "  an  ould  woman  "  at  home.  Not  till  she  had 
repeated  the  question  twice  did  I  comprehend  that 
she  was  asking  if  I  had  a  wife. 

I  enjoyed  my  visit,  and  I  enjoyed  the  lunch,  and 
when  I  prepared  to  leave  Kilmallock  and  went  to  bid 
the  Fennesseys  good-by,  I  felt  as  if  I  was  parting  from 
old  friends ;  and  the  impression  given  by  the  hospi- 
tality of  the  people  all  through  the  Golden  Vale  was 
most  agreeable.  They  did  you  a  favor  as  though  it 
was  for  their  own  pleasure.     When  I  said,  "Thank 


94 


The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 


you,"    I   was   almost  certain   of  the   quick    response, 
"  And  all  for  nothing,  sir.     It  was  no  trouble  at  all." 

In  thinking  over  my  experiences,  therefore,  I  con- 
cluded that  whatever  the  section  lacked  of  being  like 
its  name  in  landscapes  and  agricultural  affluence  was 
more  than  made  up  by  the  sympathetic  kindliness  of 
its  inhabitants. 


VI 


AN    IRISH    WRITER    AND    HER    HOME 


N  1 89 1  there  was  published 
in  Dublin  a  thin  book  of 
poems  entitled  "  Bogland 
Studies,"  and  the  author,  as  an- 
nounced by  the  title-page,  was 
J.  Barlow.  Like  most  books 
of  poems  by  unknown  writers, 
Bogland  Studies  "  was  brought 
out  at  the  author's  expense ;  but, 
unlike  the  common  run  of  them, 
the  verse  was  characterized  by 
striking  originality,  refined  feel- 
ing, and  great  aptness  and  vigor 
of  expression.  Still  the  world 
was  very  full  of  books,  and  few 
bought  the  modest  volume.  Its 
writer  was  nearly  as  unknown  as  before,  when,  presently, 
the  book  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  London  editor,  who 
read  it  with  such  interest  that  he  looked  up  the  name 
on  the  title-page  and  wrote  a  letter  to  "  Mr.  J.  Barlow." 

95 


96  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

Great  was  his  surprise  when  J.  Barlow  proved  to  be 
no  Mister  at  all,  but  Miss  Jane  Barlow,  daughter  of 
a  Dublin  professor.  Forthwith  the  editor  introduced 
Miss  Barlow  to  the  literary  public,  and  induced  her  to 
write  a  series  of  short  stories  in  prose.  These  form 
her  "  Irish  Idylls/'  so  far  the  best-known  book  she 
has  produced.  They  deserve  to  grow  in  public  favor, 
for  truer  and  more  entertaining  transcripts  of  peasant 
life  we  have  never  had.  Yet  they  will  not  appeal  to 
the  masses  ;  they  are  too  quiet,  too  simple,  too  delicate 
in  flavor,  to  stir  minds  that  crave  high-seasoned  action 
and  a  plot  full  of  turmoil  and  mystery.  Such  stories 
as  Miss  Barlow's  are  reserved  for  the  enjoyment  of 
those  who  like  sometimes  to  see  nature  and  life  as 
loiterers,  and  to  catch  the  slighter  odors  and  tints  and 
twinklings  that  escape  the  person  who  must  go  through 
a  book  on  the  jump  or  not  at  all.  The  stories  lack  the 
spice  of  sensation  ;  but  to  the  lover  of  sweet  and  simple 
realities  they  are  full  of  interest  and  sparkle. 

I  do  not  recall  anything  in  imaginative  literature  that 
deals  with  life  that  in  itself  and  in  its  environment  is 
so  humble  as  in  the  several  books  written  by  Miss 
Barlow.  The  scene  of  her  stories  is  always  the  Con- 
nemara  district  of  the  Irish  west  coast,  a  forbidding 
region  of  water-soaked  bogland,  sombre  loughs,  and 
stony  mountains.  In  the  forlorn  little  villages  on  this 
bogland  live  the  people  she  describes.     Lisconnel  is 


An  Irish  Writer  and  her  Home  97 

the  place  that  appears  oftenest  in  her  stories  —  a  hamlet 
of  ten  houses,  counting  one  with  the  roof  fallen  in.  It 
is  seven  miles  to  a  neighbor  village.  No  one  in  Lis- 
connel  owns  a  cow,  such  is  the  poverty  of  the  inhabit- 
ants, and  the  live-stock  is  limited  to  a  few  goats,  pigs, 
and  chickens ;  even  these  disappear  speedily  in  bad 
seasons.  The  cabins  are  small,  their  furnishings  meagre, 
wind  and  frost  find  easy  entrance  through  their  un- 
chinked  stone  walls,  and  the  rain  drips  through  the 
rush-thatched  roofs.  The  wet  fields,  fenced  off  by 
stone  walls  into  tiny  squares  about  the  houses,  yield 
scant  crops  of  potatoes  and  oats.  The  pinch  of  pov- 
erty makes  itself  felt  in  every  household,  and  hunger 
is  a  not  infrequent  visitor. 

Could  one  have  more  scanty  material  for  story- 
writing  ?  Yet,  as  the  Irish  say  in  one  of  their 
proverbs,  "  There  are  plenty  of  things  beside  turf  to 
be  found  in  a  bog ; "  and  one  of  the  things  that 
Miss  Barlow  finds  there  is  human  nature.  The  sym- 
pathetic reader  sees  himself  in  these  humble  villagers, 
and  he  feels  a  strange  interest  in  their  struggles,  their 
loves,  their  sacrifices  and  heroism,  their  quaint  con- 
versations and  views  of  the  world ;  and  he  could  not 
be  more  vividly  impressed  with  the  loneliness  of  the 
bog  and  the  cheer  of  its  sunshine  and  the  frowning 
frequency  of  its  showers  were  he  himself  a  bogland 
dweller.       The    descriptions   are    indeed   all    so    con- 

H 


98  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

vincing  it  was  something  of  a  shock  to  me  to  learn 
that  Lisconnel  was  not  a  real  village  at  all,  and  that  the 
author  neither  lived  in  nor  anywhere  near  such  a  place. 

Miss  Barlow's  home  is  on  the  other  side  of  the 
island,  at  Raheny,  a  suburb  of  Dublin,  four  miles  out 
of  the  city.  Raheny  is  a  shapeless,  straggling  little 
hamlet  with  parklike,  tree-dotted  fields  round  about. 
It  has  two  inns,  two  churches,  the  same  number  of 
schoolhouses,  and  a  single  shabby  little  shop.  On  the 
day  I  was  there  the  most  notable  human  feature  of 
the  village  was  a  row  of  men  near  its  chief  inn,  sitting 
or  standing  along  a  house  wall.  They  were  laborers 
waiting  to  be  hired.  It  did  not  seem  a  very  energetic 
way  of  finding  work,  but  it  saved  shoe-leather  and 
perhaps  nervous  wear  and  tear,  and  it  is  the  Irish 
custom. 

The  station-master  said  there  was  no  middle  class  in 
the  village  —  they  had  only  "swells  and  laborers."  The 
dwellings  seemed  to  bear  out  his  statement;  for  they 
were  either  the  retiring  homes  of  gentlefolk,  with  lawns 
and  shrubbery  about,  shut  away  from  the  gaze  of  the 
street-passers  by  high  stone  walls,  or  the  barren  little 
cottages  of  the  peasantry.  The  cottages  congregated 
thickest  along  a  small  stream  that  ran  through  the 
village  centre.  Many  of  them  had  thatch  roofs,  often 
weedy  and  green-mossed.  Their  surroundings  were 
very  untidy,  and  quite  in  keeping  with  the  dilapidated 


X 


o 
H 

o 

z 

< 


An   Irish  Writer  and  her  Home  99 

aspect  of  the  buildings  themselves.  Several  dogs  were 
lazing  about  the  doorways,  scratching  at  the  fleas  that 
infested  their  scraggy  coats.  One  of  them,  which 
looked  rather  younger  and  brighter  than  the  rest,  was 
sitting  on  a  bag  near  a  cottage  doorway.  This  luxury 
of  having  a  seat  suggested  that  he  was  the  household 
pet ;  and,  by  way  of  introducing  myself  to  the  woman 
of  the  house,  I  remarked,  "  That's  a  nice  dog  you 
have." 

"  He's  more  than  nice  —  he's  good,"  was  her  proud 
response. 

I  had  not  intended  my  words  to  be  taken  too  liter- 
ally, and  I  did  not  pursue  the  subject  further,  but 
looked  into  the  woman's  kitchen.  It  had  a  rough 
and  not  overclean  dirt  floor.  The  walls  were  of  rudely 
plastered  stones,  partly  hidden,  as  was  the  ceiling,  by 
newspapers  pasted  together,  forming  a  queer  sort  of 
tapestry.  It  was  a  tiny  room,  yet  there  were  in  it  two 
rickety  beds,  some  scantily  filled  shelves  of  crockery, 
several  chairs,  and  various  other  household  belongings. 
Not  much  spare  standing  room  was  left. 

The  hens  of  the  neighborhood  wandered  in  and  out 
of  the  cottage  doors,  and  with  the  other  fowls  held 
conventions  around  the  house  fronts,  very  much  as 
they  pleased.  While  I  was  looking  in  at  the  living- 
room  of  the  woman  who  owned  a  "  good  "  dog,  a  boy 
drove  up  a  flock  of  turkeys.     They  stopped  in  front 


ioo  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

of  the  cottage,  and  the  woman  came  out  with  a  pan  of 
feed.  She  knelt  down  before  them  and  doled  out  the 
food,  and  saw  that  they  all  had  a  fair  chance,  at  the 
same  time  giving  a  smart  rap  every  once  in  a  while  at 
her  neighbor's  ducks  that  showed  a  tendency  to  steal 
up  and  grab  for  a  share. 

The  cottage  dwellers  had  no  water  supply  in  their 
homes,  but  went  for  it  either  to  the  convenient  stream 
or  to  an  iron  pump  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  The 
women  were  mostly  frowzy-headed  and  slovenly,  and 
the  children  were  ragged  and  dirty.  But  what  the  little 
folk  lacked  in  immaculateness  of  attire  and  person  was 
more  than  made  up  by  their  liveliness  and  piquant 
individuality.  They  had  nothing  of  the  shyness  of 
English  children.  One  of  them,  a  small  boy,  carrying 
a  crooked  sapling  with  a  line  attached,  wanted  me  to 
go  down  to  the  stream  and  see  him  catch  "  pinkeens  "  ; 
and  they  all  showed  a  good  deal  of  volubility  and  the 
spirit  of  investigation. 

I  saw  one  little  drama  of  child  life  that  illustrates 
the  methods  of  child  training  in  general  vogue  in  Ire- 
land —  methods  not  unknown  in  some  other  parts  of 
the  world.  It  took  place  in  a  field  back  of  a  cottage 
where  two  venerable  goats  were  feeding.  In  the 
shadow  of  the  cottage  stood  a  woman  waiting  for  a 
little  boy,  who  had  crawled  through  the  hedge  at  the 
far  side  of  the  field,  and  now  came  running  toward  her 


Hungry 


An  Irish  Writer  and  her  Home  101 

with  a  bottle  hugged  tight  in  his  arms.  I  suppose  he 
was  returning  from  some  errand.  Then,  in  the  middle 
of  the  field,  there  was  a  false  step,  a  tumble,  and  a 
smash  of  glass.  The  mother  started  forward  and 
picked  up  a  switch,  and  the  boy  got  up  whining  and 
began  edging  away,  while  the  goats  looked  on  in  long- 
whiskered  surprise.  The  nearer  the  mother  came,  the 
more  the  little  one  dodged,  and  presently  he  took  to 
his  heels  and  ran  back  of  the  house  with  his  mother  in 
close  pursuit. 

Donkey  carts  were  the  most  frequent  vehicles  seen 
on  the  Raheny  streets.  Both  carts  and  donkeys 
seemed  very  small,  and  when  a  grown  man  or  a 
woman  sat  perched  on  the  seat,  the  size  of  the  rider 
seemed  quite  disproportionate  to  that  of  the  cart  and 
the  creature  which  drew  it.  But  the  donkeys  were 
sober  beasts,  and  apparently  were  contented  with  their 
lot,  though  I  did  encounter  a  single  exception  —  a 
tiny  specimen  pulling  a  cart  with  two  young  men  in 
it  up  a  hill,  and  braying  in  a  manner  distinctly  alarm- 
ing and  protesting.  One  donkey,  with  a  lad  in  charge, 
was  drawing  a  load  of  sour-smelling  distillery  waste 
about  the  village.  The  stuff  looked  like  wet  sawdust, 
but  the  boy  said  it  was  barley,  and  that  he  sold  it  a 
pailful  at  a  time,  to  feed  hens  and  pigs. 

Both  the  village  schools  were  supervised  by  the 
government,  but  one  was  conducted  under  Protestant 


102  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

auspices  and  the  other  was  controlled  by  the  Catholics. 
The  Protestant  building  was  neat  and  modern.  The 
Catholic  schoolhouse,  on  the  contrary,  was  dismal  and 
old-fashioned.  It  was  low  and  broad,  with  gray  plas- 
ter walls.  Within  were  two  rooms  —  one  for  the 
boys,  one  for  the  girls  —  each  in  charge  of  a  separate 
teacher.  The  girls'  room  was  nearest  the  street,  and, 
as  the  door  was  open,  I  went  in. 

Thirty  or  forty  scholars  were  present,  between  the 
ages  of  four  and  twelve.  The  room  was  of  fair  size, 
with  grimy,  whitewashed  walls  and  long,  unpainted 
benches.  Near  the  entrance  was  a  small,  much- 
battered  organ  and  a  table  for  the  teacher's  use, 
behind  which  was  the  room's  one  chair.  The  table 
drawers  were  gone,  and  it  was  as  cheap  and  shaky  a 
specimen  of  a  table  as  I  have  ever  seen.  The  thin, 
middle-aged  woman  who  presided  over  the  school 
politely  offered  me  the  one  chair  as  soon  as  I  entered 
the  room,  and  I  carelessly  accepted,  and  nearly  lost 
my  balance  sitting  down  in  it,  for  the  chair  toppled 
sideways  in  a  manner  to  suggest  that  it  had  only  three 
legs.  I  braced  myself  accordingly,  and  as  soon  as  the 
teacher  looked  away  I  took  advantage  of  the  oppor- 
tunity to  slide  my  hand  back  and  investigate.  The 
fourth  leg  was  there,  after  all,  and  the  only  trouble 
was  that  it  was  an  inch  short  at  the  bottom,  making 
the  chair  a  sort  of  primitive  rocker. 


An  Irish  Writer  and  her  Home  103 

The  teacher  gave  all  her  time  to  entertaining  me, 
and  turned  the  school  over  to  three  of  her  oldest 
pupils,  each  in  charge  of  a  section.  The  youngest 
section,  composed  of  infants,  adjourned  to  the  back  of 
the  room,  where  they  arranged  themselves  in  a  double 
semicircle  and  began  picking  out  words  on  a  wall 
chart.  They  were  aided  in  their  efforts  by  the  girl 
monitor,  armed  with  a  long  stick  which  was  intended 
for  a  pointer,  but  which  she  did  not  confine  strictly  to 
that  use.  This  girl  was  nervously  disposed,  and  when 
a  child  missed  and  had  to  go  to  the  foot  she  would 
take  the  delinquent  by  the  shoulders  and  push  it 
along  to  its  new  place  with  quite  unnecessary  energy. 
If  a  child's  answer  came  too  slowly,  she  would  brisken 
its  ideas  by  a  tap  from  her  stick.  Once,  when  one  of 
her  charges  was  out  of  order,  she  gave  the  culprit  a 
slap  with  her  hand. 

Another  section  of  the  school  sat  in  a  group  among 
the  seats,  and  the  girl  who  acted  as  their  teacher  stood 
facing  them  between  a  bench  and  desk. 

The  third  section  were  on  their  feet  gathered  about 
a  girl  who  was  sitting  on  a  bench  at  the  side  of  the 
room  with  her  back  against  the  wall,  eating  a  lunch. 
The  children  in  her  care  had  slates  in  their  hands, 
and  were  doing  "  sums." 

On  the  whole,  the  scene  in  the  schoolroom  was 
very  easy-going,  social,  and  domestic,  but  I  was  not 


104  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

impressed  that  the  children  were  making  any  very 
determined  progress  in  the  acquisition  of  knowledge. 
As  for  their  surroundings,  they  were  rather  cheerless 
and  depressing.  The  only  attempt  at  brightness  in 
the  room  was  a  row  of  colored  prints  that  the  teacher 
had  pinned  up  on  the  wall. 

After  a  time  I  carefully  rose  from  my  crippled  chair 
and  bade  the  teacher  "  Good  day,"  with  the  intention 
of  paying  a  visit  to  the  boys'  room.  I  went  around  to 
the  other  side  of  the  building  and  rapped.  No  re- 
sponse. I  rapped  again,  and  failed  to  attract  attention 
as  completely  as  I  had  before.  I  could  see  the  chil- 
dren through  the  keyhole,  but  there  was  such  a  clatter 
of  voices  and  buzz  of  lips  that,  though  I  rapped  two 
or  three  times  more,  I  did  not  make  myself  heard. 
This  was  too  much,  and  I  abandoned  them  to  their 
uproar  and  came  away. 

I  thought,  from  what  I  saw  of  the  village,  that 
Raheny  held  plenty  of  raw  material  for  a  writer  who 
made  peasant  life  her  field  in  fiction,  and  it  seemed 
odd  that  Miss  Barlow  should  neglect  this  for  distant 
Connemara.  Miss  Barlow's  home  is  about  five  min- 
utes' walk  from  the  station,  in  what  is  known  as  cc  The 
Cottage."  As  you  approach  it,  you  glimpse  over  the 
intervening  street  wall  a  long  thatched  roof  shadowed 
by  tree-foliage.  I  wondered  if  it  could  be  that 
Miss  Barlow  lived  under  that  humble  thatch.     After 


An   Irish  Writer  and  her  Home  105 

all,  it  would  not  be  out  of  keeping,  considering  the 
subjects  she  chooses  to  write  of  and  the  quiet  manner 
in  which  she  tells  her  stories.  But  a  little  farther  on 
I  came  to  a  mildly  imposing  gateway,  with  a  little 
shadowed  lodge  at  one  side.  Thence  a  tidy  driveway 
led  to  a  near  mansion.  It  was  not  a  pretentious  man- 
sion, but  just  of  comfortable  size,  with  a  homelike  air 
about  its  vine-clad  walls  that  was  attractive.  The 
structure  was  rather  unusual.  It  was  in  three  parts, 
beginning  near  the  street  with  the  low  thatched  cot- 
tage, which  was  followed  in  the  middle  by  a  larger 
and  more  recent  structure,  while  at  the  rear  it  rose 
in  a  modern  dwelling  of  comparatively  imposing  pro- 
portions. It  was  like  some  slow  vegetable  growth 
pushing  out  successively  into  newer  and  larger  forms,  or 
as  if  here  was  a  house  with  its  own  father  and  grand- 
father under  its  protection  on  the  ancestral  grounds. 

The  cottage  section  of  the  house  is  inconvenient, 
but  its  age  and  associations  protect  it.  Miss  Barlow 
acknowledges  a  good  deal  of  fondness  for  it,  and  pains 
are  taken  to  get  it  rethatched  when  the  roof  gets  bad. 
The  thatch,  in  the  accumulation  of  many  renewals,  has 
grown  to  a  ponderous  thickness,  and  makes  the  cottage 
look  like  some  vast  mushroom.  There  were  holes  in 
the  roof  torn  by  rats  and  birds  that  build  their  nests 
in  it,  and  a  young  plane  tree  had  shot  up  from  one  of 
its  depressions  to  a  height  of  two  feet.     But  my  visit 


106  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

shortly  antedated  the  coming  of  a  thatcher,  under 
whose  hand  I  suppose  these  touches  of  picturesqueness 
disappeared. 

Indoors  the  house  is  what  any  gentleman's  of  mod- 
erate means  might  be,  except  that  the  upstairs  parlor 
is  given  a  churchlike  air  by  a  pipe  organ  filling  one 
end  of  the  room.  This  is  used  by  Professor  Barlow, 
the  author's  father. 

The  station-master  mentioned  to  me  that  all  the 
members  of  the  family  were  very  nice  people,  and 
"  not  swells,  if  they  did  belong  to  the  gentry."  He 
had  read  some  of  Miss  Barlow's  books,  and  he  was 
quite  appreciative ;  for  he  declared  she  "  got  the  talk 
of  the  Connemarese  fine."  One  of  the  village  women 
with  whom  I  spoke,  and  who  said  she  frequently  did 
scrubbing  at  the  Barlows',  was,  like  the  station-master, 
a  warm  admirer  of  the  family,  and  agreed  with  him 
about  the  merits  of  "  Miss  Jane's"  books.  The  com- 
ment of  these  two  critics  was  not  praise  that  meant 
they  caught  the  atmosphere  and  delicate  flavor  of  the 
stories,  but  which  showed  that  the  life  portrayed  in  the 
printed  pages  was  most  accurately  interpreted. 

The  stories  convey  the  same  sense  of  reality  to 
the  stranger  who  has  never  seen  the  country,  and  as 
he  reads  he  feels  that  Miss  Barlow  understands  the 
peasant  ways  and  their  thought  and  conversation  in 
every  detail.     I  was  curious  to  know  how  she  acquired 


An  Irish  Writer  and  her  Home 


107 


this  minute  knowledge.  It  seems  that  the  family  took 
a  house  one  season  and  lived  for  a  summer  on  the 
Connemara  coast,  and  it  was  then  that  Miss  Barlow 
absorbed  the  impressions  of  local  color  and  character 
which  she  uses  in  her  stories  with  such  fidelity.  One 
would  suppose  she  must  have  been  very  intimate  with 
the  people  themselves,  she  gives  such  full  reports  of 
their  work,  their  homes,  and  their  speech ;  yet  this 
was  not  the  case.  What  she  knows  she  has  gained 
mostly  from  outside  observation,  and  the  rest  is  imagi- 
nation. But  wherever  she  gets  it,  the  bogland  life  of 
her  books  has  the  ring  of  truth,  and  it  lingers  long  in 
the  reader's  mind,  a  sweet  and  fascinating  memory. 


VII 


THE    HIGHLANDS    OF    DONEGAL 


HEN  I  left  Raheny 
I  journeyed  to  the 
rough  mountains 
and  glens  of  the  northwest, 
and  the  only  pause  worthy 
of  note  on  the  way  was  at 
Drogheda,  a  town  which  in 
itself  is  dull  and  uninterest- 
ing, but  has  unusual  historic 
attraction.  A  few  miles  to 
the  west  the  Protestant  King 
William  defeated  the  Catholic 
King  James  in  the  famous 
"  Battle  of  the  Boyne."  This 
battle,  of  triumphant  or  bitter 
memory  to  every  inhabitant 
of  Erin,  according  to  the  individual's  religious  sym- 
pathies, is  not  allowed  to  sink  into  oblivion,  but  is 
fought  over  again  in   the  more  partisan  sections   of 

108 


Drogheda  —  An    Old   Town   Gate 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  109 

Ireland  with  each  recurring  anniversary ;  and  unfortu- 
nately the  monument  erected  on  the  banks  of  the 
Boyne  is  inscribed  in  words  calculated  to  keep  alive 
rather  than  to  soothe  and  dispel  the  irritation.  It 
reads :  — 

"  Sacred  to  the  glorious  memory  of  King  William 
the  Third,  who,  on  the  1st  of  July,  1690,  passed  the 
river  near  this  place  to  attack  James  the  Second  at  the 
head  of  a  Popish  army,  advantageously  posted  on 
the  south  side  of  it,  and  did,  on  that  day,  by  a  single 
battle,  secure  to  us,  and  to  our  posterity,  our  liberty, 
laws,  and  religion.  In  consequence  of  this  action 
James  the  Second  left  his  kingdom  and  fled  to 
France." 

What  makes  Drogheda  most  notable,  however,  to 
the  delver  in  history,  is  the  dismal  tale  of  its  siege  by 
Cromwell  in  1649.  ^  was  defended  by  three  thousand 
English  Royalist  soldiers,  and  when  their  opponents 
forced  an  entrance  into  the  town,  nearly  all  of  them 
were,  by  Cromwell's  orders,  put  to  the  sword.  The 
officers,  of  a  remnant  which  surrendered,  were  knocked 
on  the  head,  and  every  tenth  man  of  the  soldiers  was 
killed,  while  the  rest  were  shipped  for  the  Barbadoes. 

The  old  fortifications  of  the  town  have  mostly  dis- 
appeared, though  there  remain  portions  of  the  walls, 
and  a  certain  breach  in  them  is  pointed  out  as  the  one 
through  which  Cromwell's   troopers    made   their   en- 


no  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

trance.  The  finest  bit  of  ancient  architecture  is  the 
lofty  gray  tower  of  one  of  the  old  town  gates,  which 
is  so  well  preserved  it  could  hardly  have  been  more 
perfect  in  its  prime. 

After  leaving  Drogheda  I  went  on  to  Strabane, 
whence  a  narrow  gauge  railroad  took  me  as  far  as 
Finntown,  a  diminutive  bogland  village  among  the 
mountains  of  Donegal,  and  left  me  stranded  there. 
I  had  expected  to  drive  on  over  the  hills  to  Dunglow 
on  the  coast,  fifteen  miles  distant.  But  a  private  con- 
veyance was  not  obtainable  in  Finntown,  and  the  only 
public  one  was  a  slender  jaunting-car  that  met  the 
train.  This  already  had"  six  passengers  when  I  sought 
it  out,  and  besides,  there  was  a  vast  heap  of  luggage, 
not  to  mention  the  driver.  With  cheerful  Irish  op- 
timism this  individual  declared  he  still  had  room  for 
me ;  but  his  two-wheeled  skeleton  of  a  vehicle  looked 
to  be  in  imminent  danger  of  a  breakdown  already. 
How  the  single  horse  could  draw  such  a  load  was  a 
problem,  and  I  preferred  to  leave  the  jaunting-car  to 
its  fate,  while  I  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  seeing 
something  of  the  region  where  I  then  was,  on  foot. 

It  was  early  in  the  afternoon,  cold  and  windy,  and 
gloomy  with  the  shadows  of  threatening  gray  clouds. 
The  country  was  one  of  bogs  and  rocks,  that  here  and 
there  on  favoring  slopes  gave  way  to  little  patches  of 
green    fields    alternating  with   plots   of  newly  turned 


Carrying    Manure   to  the   Fields 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  1 1 1 

earth.  The  houses  were  low,  one-story  buildings, 
rarely  containing  more  than  two  rooms,  and  of  the 
rudest  construction  throughout.  Roofs  were  invari- 
ably of  thatch,  criss-crossed  with  ropes  of  twisted  hay 
that  were  either  tied  to  stones  dangling  in  a  continu- 
ous row  along  the  eaves,  or  to  pegs  driven  into  the 
house  walls.  The  thatch  was  sometimes  of  rushes, 
oat  straw,  or  heather,  but  most  often  was  of  a  wispy 
grass  cut  on  the  bogs,  known  as  "mountainy  stuff/' 

The  Donegal  soil  is  very  wet,  and  so  yielding  that 
horses  cannot  work  on  it.  Few  of  the  farmers  own 
even  a  donkey,  and  all  the  work  is  done  in  the  most 
laborious  and  primitive  fashion,  by  hand.  One  man 
with  whom  I  stopped  to  talk  was  carrying  manure  in 
a  basket  on  his  back  from  a  great  pile  in  front  of  his 
house  to  a  near  field.  His  boy,  a  lad  of  thirteen,  was 
helping  with  a  basket  of  smaller  size.  Often  the 
women  assist  in  this  task.  When  the  land  has  been 
dotted  thickly  over  with  the  heaps  dumped  from  the 
baskets,  and  these  have  been  spread  with  forks,  they 
break  up  the  lumps  and  distribute  the  manure  more 
evenly  with  their  hands. 

In  a  plot  neighboring  the  one  where  I  stopped, 
two  men  were  putting  the  finishing  touches  on  a  small 
patch  of  oats.  The  ground  had  been  prepared  and 
the  oats  sown,  and  the  men  were  now  digging  trenches 
through  the  field  about  eight  feet  apart,  and  scattering 


H2  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

the  earth  as  they  heaved  it  out,  over  the  seed.  But  at 
this  particular  season  more  farmers  were  engaged  in 
securing  their  year's  supply  of  fuel  from  the  "  peat 
moss  "  than  in  tilling  the  soil.  I  could  see  the  lonely 
groups  bending  to  their  work  on  the  bog,  digging  out 
the  black  sods,  and  laying  them  all  around  the  cutting, 
to  stay  until  the  completion  of  the  slow  two  months' 
process  of  drying. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  as  I  was  passing  a  hillside 
cottage,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a  curious  hum- 
ming sound.  The  door  was  open  and  I  looked  in. 
There  stood  a  woman,  barefoot  in  spite  of  the  damp 
and  chill  of  the  hard  clay  floor,  spinning  at  a  great 
old-fashioned  wool  wheel  —  an  extremely  clumsy  affair, 
which  had  the  appearance  of  having  been  homemade 
about  a  hundred  years  ago.  I  made  my  presence 
known,  and  was  invited  in  to  watch  the  work  as  long 
as  I  chose  to  stay,  though  the  woman  expressed 
surprise  that  I  should  find  it  interesting.  To  her  the 
process  was  commonplace,  for,  like  most  persons 
brought  up  in  these  Donegal  homes,  she  had  been 
used  to  it  from  childhood.  She  said  the  yarn  was  to 
be  used  in  part  for  knitting,  and  in  part  was  to  be  made 
into  cloth  by  a  weaver  who  had  a  loom  in  a  cabin 
down  the  road.  Backward  and  forward  the  spinner 
walked,  twirling  the  wheel  with  her  right  hand  and 
holding  a  roll  of  fleecy  wool  in  her  left.     An  attenu- 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  113 

ated  strand  connected  the  roll  with  the  tip  of  the 
spindle,  which,  in  its  rapid  revolutions,  twisted  the 
wool  into  yarn.  The  spinner  kept  the  yarn  an  even 
thickness  by  her  practised  sense  of  touch,  and  every 
few  moments  she  stopped  the  wheel,  shifted  the  strand, 
and  gave  the  wheel  another  whirl  to  wind  up  at  the 
base  of  the  spindle  the  yard  or  two  she  had  finished. 
Then  the  process  was  begun  over  again. 

By  the  fire  sat  a  wrinkled  old  woman,  with  a  red 
kerchief  on  her  head,  carding.  She  held  one  card  in 
her  left  hand,  hooks  upward,  on  her  knees,  and  with 
the  card  in  her  right  pulled  and  scratched  the  wool 
into  an  even  fleece.  That  done,  she  loosened  the 
wool  from  the  hooks,  took  it  between  the  backs  of  the 
cards,  and  rolled  it  into  a  light  puff  a  foot  long.  Her 
supply  of  material  was  in  a  sack  by  her  side,  and  a 
little  two-year  old  girl,  who  was  pattering  about  the 
cabin  floor,  now  and  then  tried  to  help  by  pulling  some 
of  it  from  the  bag  and  tucking  it  into  the  old  woman's 
lap. 

The  man  of  the  house  sat  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  fireplace  smoking,  except  for  occasional  inter- 
missions, when  he  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
to  spit  on  the  floor.  A  second  child,  somewhat  older 
than  the  other,  was  playing  with  a  frayed  patch  on 
the  leg  of  the  man's  trousers.  In  one  corner  of  the 
room  was  a  rude  bed,  in  another  a  heap  of  potatoes. 


ii4  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

Overhead  were  the  smoke-blackened  rafters  of  the 
roof,  with  certain  cross-beams,  sticks,  and  lines  inter- 
vening, from  which  were  suspended  all  sorts  of  house- 
hold miscellany,  including  several  of  the  brown  bags 
of  wool  awaiting  spinning.  One  feature  of  the  room, 
that  seemed  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  litter, 
was  a  modern  sewing-machine  of  expensive  make.  A 
tin  kerosene  lamp  was  fastened  against  the  wall,  and 
the  man  said  I  would  find  such  a  lamp  in  most  homes, 
though  there  were  families  so  poor  they  used  no  light 
save  pitchy  fragments  of  fir  wood  dug  out  of  the  bog. 
Take  a  pitch  splinter  as  big  as  one's  finger,  he  ex- 
plained, and  it  made  a  very  good  torch  to  carry  about. 

The  old  woman  carding  wanted  to  know  if  I  spoke 
the  Irish.  Her  tongue  accommodated  itself  hesitatingly 
to  English,  for  Gaelic  is  the  common  language  of  the 
mountains.  I,  of  course,  had  to  confess  my  linguistic 
inability.  That  I  was  from  America  seemed  to  me 
sufficient  reason  for  my  ignorance,  but  with  her  that 
would  not  pass.  She  knew  well  that  Irish  was  talked 
in  the  States  —  sure  !  many  and  many  had  gone  to  the 
States  who  knew  nothing  else  —  and  she  was  scarce 
able  to  excuse  my  delinquency. 

The  family  could  mention  a  number  of  relatives 
and  former  neighbors  now  resident  in  America,  just  as 
can  almost  every  family  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  island.     The  Donegal  emigrants,  how- 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  115 

ever,  return  to  take  up  anew  the  life  on  the  forlorn 
boglands  with  a  frequency  probably  unequalled  in  any 
other  section.  I  wonder  that  they  should,  for,  at  best, 
they  can  gain  only  a  meagre  support ;  but  they  have  a 
deep  attachment  for  their  native  soil,  and  I  suppose 
they  miss  their  customary  hardships  and  the  music  of 
the  Irish  language.  It  is  generally  thought  by  their 
old  neighbors  that  their  foreign  sojourn  has  done  them 
no  good.  They  do  not  take  to  the  heavy  manual 
labor  as  kindly  as  before,  and  they  give  themselves 
airs  in  their  Yankee  clothes.  Not  till  every  shred  of 
these  clothes  is  gone  does  the  returned  traveller  become 
entirely  normal,  and  begin  to  take  his  proper  place  in 
the  bogland  world. 

I  spent  the  night  at  Finntown's  lone  hotel,  a  big 
barren  structure  of  gray  stone,  overlooking  a  little 
lough,  beyond  which  rose  some  bleak,  dark  mountain 
ridges.  The  hotel  depended  on  its  bar  and  a  small 
shop  for  a  livelihood,  and  not  on  stray  travellers. 
From  the  dining  room  window  the  foreground  of  the 
view  was  mainly  composed  of  a  stack  of  peat  just 
across  the  road,  with  a  generous  accompaniment  of 
rubbish.  The  dining  room's  chief  articles  of  furniture 
were  a  dirty  lounge,  a  few  rickety  chairs,  and  a  round 
table  covered  with  a  scant  square  of  oilcloth.  The 
less  said  about  the  floor  the  better.  On  the  mantel 
were  two  silent  clocks.      Such  clocks,  or  those  that 


n6  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

kept  time  on  an  erratic  plan  of  their  own,  were  com- 
mon in  Irish  hotels,  but  I  did  not  often  find  two  on 
the  same  shelf. 

My  evening  meal  was  hardly  more  prepossessing 
than  the  room.  There  was  some  questionable  butter 
with  no  butter  knife ;  a  bowl  of  coarse-grained  sugar 
crystals  with  no  spoon  ;  and  bacon  and  eggs  likewise 
spoonless.  The  single  knife  and  fork  with  which  I 
ate  and  the  spoon  which  accompanied  my  tea  were 
apparently  considered  sufficient  for  all  purposes.  The 
knife  was  of  steel,  with  a  wooden  handle,  and  the 
fork  of  "  silver  "  worn  down  to  the  bare  metal  under- 
neath, and  its  tines  deformed  into  the  semblance  of 
corkscrews.  I  had  my  doubts  about  the  cleanliness 
of  the  dishes.  Besides,  the  bacon  was  half  done,  dread- 
fully salt,  and  floating  in  grease.  The  tea  might  have 
been  willow  leaves,  the  hot  water  tasted  of  the  bog, 
and,  though  the  bread  was  passable  and  the  diminutive 
portion  of  milk  vouchsafed  was  sweet,  the  meal  as  a 
whole  was  decidedly  uninviting. 

The  house  upstairs  looked  like  an  unfinished  bar- 
racks, and  my  chamber  had  sheathed  walls  and  ceiling, 
paintless  and  wholly  unornamented.  The  one  window 
was  uncurtained,  and  the  floor  was  without  a  carpet  or 
rugs.  That  the  room  was  ordinarily  used  by  some 
member  of  the  hotel  household  seemed  evident  from 
the  presence  in  one  corner  of  a  shrine  of  packing  boxes, 


Carding   Wool 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  117 

surmounted  with  a  crockery  image  of  the  Mother 
Mary  holding  the  infant  Christ  in  her  arms.  A  soap 
box  at  the  base  of  the  shrine  projected  to  form  a  con- 
venient kneeling  place.  The  bed  was  as  dubious  as 
the  rest  of  the  hotel  belongings,  yet,  thanks  to  my 
afternoon's  tramping,  I  slept  as  well  as  if  my  surround- 
ings had  been  palatial. 

Rain  was  falling  in  frequent  showers  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  the  wind  blew  in  a  chilling  gale.  I  started  out 
in  one  of  the  brighter  intervals,  but  had  not  gone  far 
when  a  fierce  scud  drove  me  to  beg  shelter  at  a  wayside 
hovel.  I  might  as  well  have  gone  into  an  ancient  cave 
dwelling,  the  gloom  of  the  interior  was  so  deep.  After 
all,  was  I  in  a  human  habitation  or  a  henhouse?  Sense 
of  smell  said  the  latter,  though  odors  were  somewhat 
mixed,  and  when  sight  returned  to  my  at  first  blinded 
eyes  this  impression  was  strengthened.  A  wet,  scrubby 
turkey  stood  drying  and  warming  itself  in  front  of  the 
peat  fire  glowing  low  on  the  rude  hearth.  Close  by,  a 
hen  was  sitting  in  a  box,  and,  a  little  more  retiring, 
a  second  hen  was  comfortably  established  among  the 
tumbled  rags  of  a  ruinous  bed.  On  the  uneven  dirt 
floor  a  third  hen  was  picking  about  with  an  industrious 
family  of  chickens,  and  later  other  hens,  turkeys,  and 
several  ducks  wandered  in  from  outdoors.  Even  with- 
out these  feathered  occupants  the  room  was  distressing 
in  its  clutter  and  grime.     Up  above  hung  no  end  of 


1 1 8  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

duds  and  wreckage,  while  below  was  a  chaos  of  bags, 
peat  fragments,  broken  furniture,  farm  tools,  and 
household  implements.  I  thought  I  would  rather 
live  in  an  American  stable. 

A  tall  tatterdemalion  of  a  man  had  given  me  a  chair, 
and  found  another  for  himself.  From  behind  him  a 
small  boy  in  a  long-sleeved  coat,  apparently  inherited, 
watched  me  furtively.  By  the  fireside  squatted  a 
woman  knitting  some  coarse  men's  socks.  Presently 
in  a  lull  of  the  storm  a  barefoot  little  girl  came  noise- 
lessly in  at  the  door.  She  was  not  one  of  the  house- 
hold, and  she  crept  along  the  wall  until  she  reached  a 
tiny  window  that  looked  out  on  the  street.  Then  I 
noticed  that  a  few  dusty  jars  of  candy  and  some  other 
small  wares  were  displayed  there.  The  girl  wanted  a 
penny's  worth  of  motto  candy,  and  the  boy  who  had 
gone  to  the  window  with  her  took  down  the  jar  she 
pointed  out  and  carried  it  to  his  mother  by  the  fire- 
place. The  woman  poured  out  the  required  amount 
of  candies  into  her  hand,  and  exchanged  with  the 
girl  for  the  penny,  and  the  boy  carried  the  jar  back. 
As  he  replaced  it  in  the  window,  however,  he  slyly 
abstracted  one  of  the  sweets  and  slipped  it  into  his 
mouth. 

The  housewife  was  knitting  for  a  shopkeeper  in  a 
town  "  six  miles  over  the  mountain,"  who  acted  as 
agent  for  some  concern  in  Scotland.     The  Scotch  firm 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  119 

furnished  the  yarn,  and  she  got  a  fresh  bundle  at  the 
shop  as  often  as  she  finished  knitting  her  former 
supply  and  carried  the  socks  to  be  shipped  to  Scot- 
land. She  received  for  her  work  three  halfpence  a 
pair,  and  nearly  always  took  up  the  money  due  in 
trade.  Some  of  the  remoter  of  these  Donegal  knitters 
lived  fully  thirty  miles  from  the  shop  which  gave  out 
the  work.  They,  as  well  as  those  who  lived  nearer, 
made  the  journeys  to  it  and  back  on  foot,  with  packs 
on  their  backs  containing  the  socks  or  the  yarn,  accord- 
ing as  they  were  going  or  returning.  If  it  was  neces- 
sary to  be  absent  from  home  more  than  one  day,  they 
usually  stayed  over  night  with  friendly  wayside  folk. 
Often  they  travelled  in  parties  of  ten  or  twelve,  and  in 
pleasant  weather  would  only  stop  toward  evening  at 
some  house  to  refresh  themselves  with  hot  tea,  and 
then  would  keep  on  all  night. 

The  shower  which  had  been  the  occasion  of  my 
seeking  shelter  at  length  ceased,  and  I  had  left  the 
hut  and  was  walking  along  the  road,  when  a  young 
man  overtook  me  and  began  to  ask  questions  as  to 
my  business.  My  answers  did  not  satisfy  him,  and  it 
was  plain  he  was  suspicious  and  excited.  Finally  he 
boldly  accused  me  of  working  for  the  government. 
It  was  of  no  avail  to  deny  the  charge.  He  was  sure  — 
he  declared  he  had  been  to  Australia  and  all  over  the 
world,  and  he  knew !     He  had  had  his  misgivings  of 


120  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

me  as  soon  as  I  came  to  Finntown,  and  now  his  ill 
opinion  was  confirmed,  and  he  would  trace  me ! 

So  we  parted,  and  I  judged  from  the  tenor  of  his 
remarks  that  when  the  tracing  had  been  done  some- 
thing would  happen.  Later  I  inquired  the  reason  for 
this  flurry,  and  was  told  that  strangers  sometimes  wan- 
dered among  the  mountains  searching  for  valuable 
minerals,  and  that  they  were  secretive  concerning  their 
object,  or  did  not  satisfactorily  explain  their  actions  to 
the  understanding  of  the  natives,  who  therefore  have 
come  to  look  on  them  as  emissaries  of  the  government. 
The  peasantry  have  a  keen  antipathy  to  England  and 
its  rule,  and  these  spies,  as  they  call  them,  are  subject 
to  a  good  deal  of  dislike. 

The  Donegal  folk  of  this  particular  region  have  had 
some  very  unfortunate  encounters  with  governmental 
power,  and  their  bitterness,  whether  just  or  not,  is 
natural.  It  was  in  the  neighboring  Glen  Veagh  that 
occurred  forty  years  ago  one  of  the  most  distressing 
tragedies  of  Irish  life,  in  its  relations  between  landlords 
and  tenantry,  of  which  we  have  record.  An  estate  in 
this  glen  had  been  recently  bought  by  a  Mr.  Adair. 
He  was,  I  believe,  a  kindly  man  with  the  best  inten- 
tions as  regards  his  treatment  of  his  tenants,  but  he 
had  the  ill  luck  almost  at  once  to  come  into  collision 
with  them.  It  began  with  his  shooting  on  a  moun- 
tain over  which  another  landlord  claimed  the  sporting 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  121 

rights.  The  peasantry  took  sides  against  Mr.  Adair, 
and  regarded  him  as  a  usurper;  and  one  day  they 
came  forth  in  a  body  to  the  disputed  shooting-ground 
and  turned  him  off. 

This   resulted   in    a   series    of  lawsuits,    and    Mr. 
Adair  was  greatly  irritated  by  the  opposition  he  en- 
countered and  the  delays  in  obtaining  what  he  believed 
was  justice.     Meanwhile  he  had  bought  more  property, 
until  he  owned  a  tract  of  ninety  square  miles,  and  he 
undertook  to  stock  the  mountains  with  Scotch  sheep. 
As  an  outcome,  the  bogs  were  strewn  with  dead  mutton. 
Accusations  were  brought  against  the  tenants,  and  they 
were  compelled  to  part  with  their  meagre  goods  to  pay 
for  sheep  that  often,  at  least,  had   died  of  exposure 
to  the  weather.     But  Mr.  Adair  was  convinced  that 
the  people  were  banded  together  to  do  him  injury,  and 
when,  in  the  late  autumn,  his  manager  was  found  dead 
on   Derry   Beagh   Mountain,   and  no  evidence  forth- 
coming to   show  who   had   committed  the  crime,  he 
decided  to  make  an  example  of  this  pestilential  com- 
munity. 

Accordingly,  the  following  spring,  he  served  notices 
of  ejectment  on  all  the  tenantry  of  the  district.  Every 
effort  was  made  to  dissuade  him,  for  to  exile  several 
hundred  souls  so  summarily  from  their  homes,  and  in 
many  cases  from  their  only  available  means  of  liveli- 
hood, meant  for  them  acute  suffering.      Mr.   Adair, 


122  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

however,  was  inflexible,  and  the  sheriff,  with  two  hun- 
dred police  and  soldiers,  took  up  the  task  and  spent 
three  days  in  dragging  men  and  women  out  of  their 
cabins  and  levelling  their  poor  huts.  The  evicted 
tenants  hung  about  the  ruins,  and  many  of  them  slept 
for  several  nights  on  the  open  hillsides.  Fortunately, 
the  affair  was  widely  noticed,  and  relief  soon  came  — 
that  which  was  most  effectual  being  a  proposal  from 
one  of  the  governments  in  Australia  to  give  free  pas- 
sage thither  to  all  who  wished  to  emigrate.  Most  of 
the  homeless  peasants  eagerly  accepted  this  offer,  and 
thus  the  episode  ended.  The  landlord  had  at  last 
triumphed,  and  was  undisputed  master  of  desolate  and 
unhappy  Glen  Veagh. 

This  was  a  case  where  the  harshness  of  the  proprie- 
tor loses  him  all  sympathy ;  but  injustice,  faults  of 
judgment,  and  feelings  of  revenge  are  qualities  from 
which  the  peasantry  are  no  more  free  than  the  land- 
lords. The  difficulties  and  perils  under  which  the 
latter  labored  are  ably  set  forth  by  Mr.  W.  S.  Trench, 
whose  book  I  have  found  occasion  to  quote  before. 
The  antipathies  existing  between  proprietors  and  ten- 
ants were  most  intense  about  half  a  century  ago. 
What  were  known  as  "  Ribbon  Societies  "  then  held 
sway  far  and  wide,  and  these  dark  and  mysterious  con- 
federacies spread  terror  and  dismay  to  the  hearts  of 
both  rich  and  poor,  and  did   much  to  promote   the 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  123 

absenteeism  of  wealthy  landowners,  which  was  one  of 
Ireland's  chief  sources  of  complaint.  As  fate  would 
have  it,  those  proprietors  who  were  most  anxious  and 
earnest  for  the  improvement  of  tenantry  conditions  on 
their  estates  came  oftenest  under  the  ban  of  the  Rib- 
bon men ;  while  the  careless,  spendthrift,  good-for- 
nothing  landlord,  who  hunted  and  drank  and  ran  in 
debt,  and  very  likely  collected  exorbitant  rents,  was 
allowed  to  live  in  indolent  peace  on  his  domain,  pro- 
vided he  did  not  interfere  with  the  time-honored  cus- 
toms of  subdividing,  squatting,  and  reckless  marriages. 

The  main  object  of  the  Ribbon  Leagues  was  to  pre- 
vent landlords,  under  any  circumstances,  from  depriv- 
ing a  tenant  of  his  land.  The  second  object  was  to 
deter  tenants  from  taking  land  from  which  other 
tenants  had  been  evicted.  In  enforcing  these  two 
objects,  numerous  victims,  from  the  titled  peer  to  the 
humblest  cotter,  fell  under  the  hand  of  the  assassin. 

As  the  Ribbon  Societies  were  entirely  secret  and 
amenable  to  no  laws,  they  did  not  adhere  very 
accurately  to  the  precise  objects  for  which  they  were 
originally  organized.  By  degrees  they  assumed  the 
position  of  redressers  of  all  wrongs,  real  and  fancied, 
connected  with  the  management  of  land. 

The  initial  step  in  bringing  their  influence  to  bear 
was  to  send  threatening  notices.  Their  lack  of  judi- 
ciousness is  shown  by  the  fact  that  the  warnings  which 


124  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

followed  evictions  were  not  confined  to  cases  where  it 
was  claimed  the  rent  was  exorbitant,  but  were  just  as 
menacing  even  if  the  tenant  had  refused  to  pay  any- 
rent  whatever. 

Mr.  Trench  mentions  seeing  a  notice  announcing 
certain  death  to  a  respectable  farmer  because  he  had 
dismissed  a  careless  ploughman ;  and  employers  who 
refused  to  hire  laborers,  approved  by  the  local  Ribbon 
League,  were  threatened  in  like  manner.  Mr.  Trench 
himself  received  a  letter  illustrated  with  a  coffin,  in 
flaring  red,  and  adorned  with  a  death's  head  and  cross- 
bones,  promising  the  most  frightful  consequences  to 
himself  and  family,  if  he  did  not  continue  in  his  ser- 
vice a  profligate  carpenter  who  had  been  discharged 
for  idleness  and  vice. 

About  the  year  1840  Mr.  Trench  was  living  in 
County  Tipperary,  not  far  from  the  small  town  of 
Cloghjordan.  The  country  was  very  much  disturbed 
by  the  wild  deeds  of  the  Ribbon  men,  and  a  tradesman 
with  whom  Mr.  Trench  constantly  dealt  had  recently 
been  barbarously  murdered,  as  had  also  a  local  farmer. 
Just  why  these  two  had  been  singled  out  for  punish- 
ment was  not  at  all  clear  to  any  one  outside  the 
Leagues. 

While  the  excitement  concerning  these  crimes  was 
still  rife,  a  most  daring  raid  was  made  on  the  home  of 
a  Mr.  Hall,  whose  mansion  was  about  three  miles  out- 


Spinning   with   the   Great   Wheel 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  125 

side  the  town.  Several  armed  men  entered  his  dwell- 
ing on  a  Sunday  morning,  when  the  male  members  of 
the  family  were  at  church,  and  its  only  occupants  were 
the  gentleman's  daughters.  Mr.  Hall  was  a  man  of 
considerable  fortune  and  the  robbers  expected  to  secure 
a  rich  booty.  In  response  to  their  demand  that  all  the 
money  the  house  contained  should  be  turned  over 
to  them,  the  young  ladies  directed  the  intruders  to 
their  father's  iron  chest.  This  chest  the  robbers 
lugged  out  to  the  lawn,  where  they  tried  to  force  it 
open  with  crowbars ;  but  it  was  very  strong  and  they 
did  not  succeed.  It  was  too  heavy  for  them  to  carry 
away,  and  its  treasure,  some  £100,  remained  safe. 
They  returned  to  the  mansion  now,  and  took  a  few 
stands  of  arms,  and  the  leader  went  into  the  parlor 
and  asked  for  liquor.  His  request  was  too  late,  for 
the  young  ladies,  fearing  the  men  might  become  dan- 
gerous if  they  got  drink,  had  emptied  out  of  the  win- 
dow the  contents  of  a  large  flask  of  whiskey  that  stood 
on  the  side  table,  and  there  was  nothing  for  the  ma- 
rauders but  water.  They  soon  departed,  and  then  the 
house  inmates  contrived  to  send  word  of  what  had 
occurred  to  the  church.  Help  presently  arrived,  and 
during  the  afternoon  the  country  round  about  was 
thoroughly  searched  in  the  hope  that  the  robbers 
would  be  captured.  The  quest  was  unsuccessful,  but 
at  night  the  police  visited  some  houses  of  suspicious 


126  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

character,  and  found  concealed  in  them  a  number  of 
men  with  blackened  faces.  Their  clothing  was  stained 
with  bog  mould,  and  was  suggestive  of  their  having 
crouched  in  a  peat  cutting  on  the  marshes  while  the 
search  of  the  afternoon  was  in  progress.  They  were 
arrested  and  brought  before  a  magistrate,  and  four  of 
them  were  ultimately  convicted  and  transported  beyond 
the  seas. 

Mr.  Hall  was  a  kind,  amiable,  and  much-respected 
man,  but  after  this  occurrence  he  became  exceedingly 
unpopular  and  obnoxious  to  the  peasantry.  A  few 
months  later,  toward  noon  of  a  bright,  sunny  day  in 
May,  Mr.  Trench  was  riding  along  the  road  in  the 
vicinity  of  Mr.  Hall's  estate,  when  he  heard  a  faint 
report  as  of  a  gun  or  a  pistol  at  a  little  distance  in  the 
fields.  Immediately  afterward  a  laborer  came  running 
up  a  lane  to  meet  him,  saying,  "  Oh,  sir,  Mr.  Hall 
has  just  been  shot." 

"  Shot !  "  cried  the  gentleman,  pulling  up  his  horse. 
"  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  Stone  dead,"  was  the  reply. 

Mr.  Trench  rode  rapidly  down  the  lane  to  the  scene 
of  the  tragedy,  and  there  on  the  grass  lay  his  neigh- 
bor's body  lifeless,  but  still  warm.  Several  other  gen- 
tlemen arrived  shortly,  and  stood  about  considering 
what  was  to  be  done.  Most  of  them  were  armed  and 
were  intent  on  arresting  the  murderer,  yet  they  were 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  127 

utterly  helpless,  though  scarcely  a  quarter-hour  had 
elapsed  since  the  fatal  shot  was  fired.  Numbers  of 
people  had  been  working  all  around  planting  their 
potatoes,  and  a  crowd  of  them  had  gathered  and  were 
looking  at  the  body,  and  feigning  wonder  as  to  who 
could  have  done  the  deed.  Not  one  of  them  would 
tell  who  the  assassin  was  or  whither  he  had  gone,  and 
no  trace  of  him  could  be  found. 

Large  rewards  were  offered  for  his  apprehension, 
and  at  last  an  accomplice  turned  informer  and  the 
guilty  man  was  arrested.  A  great  deal  of  attention 
was  attracted  by  the  trial,  and  it  was  largely  attended. 
The  informer  was  a  dark,  desperate-looking  man  of 
about  forty  years  of  age,  while  the  prisoner  was  much 
younger,  pale,  slight,  and  without  anything  in  his  coun- 
tenance to  indicate  ferocity  or  passion.  The  story  of 
the  informer  was  that  he  had  been  hired  to  commit 
the  crime  by  a  farmer  on  Mr.  Hall's  estate  who  had 
been  refused  some  petty  demand  by  his  landlord, 
and  had  concluded,  "  It  would  be  a  good  thing  to 
rid  the  country  of  such  a  tyrant." 

He  gave  the  witness  five  pounds,  which  he  shared 
with  the  prisoner,  who  agreed  to  accompany  and  help 
him.  On  that  fatal  day  in  May,  the  witness  saw  Mr. 
Hall  walking  in  the  fields  with  a  cane  in  his  hand. 
He  slipped  his  pistol  up  his  sleeve,  and  stealthily 
approached  the  unsuspecting    landlord   until  he  was 


128  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

quite  close.  But  Mr.  Hall  heard  his  footsteps,  and 
turned  round  and  asked  what  he  wanted.  He  mut- 
tered some  excuse  and  passed  on.  Again  he  stole  up 
behind  his  victim,  and  again  Mr.  Hall  discovered 
him,  though  still  with  no  thought  that  his  designs 
were  unfriendly.  The  intending  murderer,  thus  twice 
baffled,  now  returned  to  his  companion,  dashed  the 
pistol  on  the  ground,  and  said  with  an  oath :  "  I 
see  it's  unlucky.  I  will  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  it." 

At  this  the  young  man  called  the  witness  a  coward, 
took  up  the  pistol,  and  declared  he  would  use  it  him- 
self. Mr.  Hall  had  continued  walking  across  the 
fields,  and  the  murderer  went  straight  up  to  him,  with- 
out speaking  or  showing  his  pistol.  Mr.  Hall,  fancy- 
ing from  his  manner  that  he  meant  mischief,  sprang 
back  a  step  or  two,  and  in  so  doing  stumbled  over  a 
tussock  and  fell.  That  was  the  assassin's  opportunity. 
Before  the  gentleman  could  get  up  or  recover  himself, 
the  young  man  put  the  pistol  close  to  his  head  and 
shot  him  dead  on  the  spot.  Then  the  murderer 
threw  his  weapon  into  an  adjoining  hedge  and  walked 
quietly  away  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  to  meet  his 
accomplice,  and  they  were  in  the  crowd  which  gath- 
ered shortly  about  the  body. 

The  testimony  of  the  informer  was  amply  corrobo- 
rated, but  the  jury  disagreed  and  the  prisoner  was  re- 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  129 

manded  to  jail.  By  the  peasantry  the  result  of  the 
trial  was  regarded  as  a  decided  triumph,  the  lawless- 
ness of  the  district  increased,  and  three  more  murders 
quickly  followed.  But  Mr.  Hall's  assailant  was  pres- 
ently again  tried  —  this  time  by  a  "Special  Commis- 
sion "  —  and  he  was  convicted.  Two  weeks  later  he 
was  executed,  and  for  a  long  time  afterward  Tipperary 
was  quiet. 

I  only  stayed  at  Finntown  over  one  night,  and  at 
noon,  shortly  after  my  encounter  with  the  man  who 
was  going  to  trace  me,  I  engaged  a  place  on  the  Dun- 
glow  jaunting-car.  It  was  almost  as  heavily  loaded 
as  the  day  before,  and  three  of  the  passengers  were 
women.  We  were  a  good  while  in  getting  started 
from  the  station,  for  there  were  many  articles  of  lug- 
gage to  be  packed  away  and  tied  on,  and  the  driver 
had  a  good  deal  of  small  business  to  transact  with  the 
station  master.  The  showers  kept  descending  every 
few  minutes,  and  in  one  of  these,  a  ragged  old  woman, 
with  a  bag  about  her  head  in  place  of  a  shawl,  and 
with  her  feet  bound  up  in  some  pieces  of  homespun, 
climbed  over  a  wall  from  the  bog  and  addressed  the 
occupants  of  the  jaunting-car.  She  pulled  back  her 
sleeves  and  showed  several  scars  on  her  arms  which  she 
said  were  dog  bites,  and  one  of  the  women  passengers 
who,  from  the  fact  that  she  wore  a  hat,  I  judged  was 
better- to- do  than  the  others,  gave  the  beggar  a  half- 


130  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

penny.  This  was  accepted  thankfully,  with  voluble 
prayers  for  the  bestowal  on  the  giver  of  blessings  of 
all  sorts  ;  and  if  these  materialized,  they  were  certainly 
cheaply  had  at  the  price. 

At  length  we  were  off,  pursuing  a  winding  road  up 
and  down  an  endless  succession  of  rocky  hills,  with  the 
boglands  frowning  around  in  every  direction.  We 
were  assailed  by  frequent  windy  scuds  of  rain,  but 
there  were  spells  between,  when  the  clouds  broke  and 
the  sunshine  stole  over  the  wet  moors,  and  the  rain- 
bows arched  the  distance.  It  was  a  lonely  land  —  a 
few  grazing  cows  and  sheep,  farms  at  long  intervals 
with  their  tiny,  stone-walled  fields  and  lowly  dwellings, 
now  and  then  a  stream  dark  with  the  bog  stain,  many 
little  lakes  in  the  hollows,  and  never  a  bush  or  a  tree, 
save  occasional  stunted  and  storm-beaten  ones  near 
the  farmhouses.  We  sometimes  met  a  barefoot  woman, 
and  once  stopped  to  help  a  man  with  an  overloaded 
cart  whose  horse  had  come  to  an  exhausted  stop  in 
climbing  a  long,  steep  hill.  Our  driver  and  the  two 
men  passengers  on  the  jaunting-car  alighted,  and  by 
pushing  behind,  we  got  the  stranded  horse  and  cart 
into  motion  again.  The  assistance  rendered  by  my 
fellow  traveller  was,  I  fancy,  more  willing  than  effec- 
tive. His  familiarity  with  the  whiskey  bottle  was 
very  evident,  and  his  hands  were  so  unsteady  he  could 
hardly  light  his  pipe.     As  we  journeyed  he  swayed 


X 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  131 

limply  backward  and  forward  with  the  jolts  of  the  car, 
and  I  was  much  afraid  at  first  he  would  tumble  off. 
Later,  I  was  afraid  he  wouldn't ;  for  he  was  a  nuisance 
with  his  rambling,  unceasing  talk,  and  his  drunken 
determination  that  the  passengers  should  all  exactly 
understand  his  opinions  of  matters  and  things. 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  we  reached  Dun- 
glow,  where  I  found  an  excellent  hotel ;  but  the  place 
itself  was  a  dreary  coast  town,  and  I  did  not  feel  like 
lingering  in  it.  There  was  little  traffic,  and  the  pass- 
ing to  and  fro  on  the  chief  street  was  mainly  confined 
to  a  few  carts  engaged  in  conveying  seaweed  for  fertil- 
izer from  the  shore  to  the  farmlands  behind  the  vil- 
lage. I  ought  also  to  mention  an  old  man,  who  was 
being  stoned  by  some  small  boys.  He  had  a  pail  in 
either  hand,  and  made  several  visits  to  a  stream  that 
ran  through  the  town,  filled  his  pails,  and  then  bore 
them  slowly  away  to  his  home.  He  was  short  and 
stooping,  and  too  stiff  and  aged  to  give  chase  to  his 
persecutors,  and,  encumbered  by  his  pails,  his  only 
resource  was  angry  threats  and  rumblings  of  wrath, 
which  pleased  the  lads  the  more. 

The  next  morning  I  went  back  with  the  car  half- 
way to  Finntown,  to  a  little  place  called  Doochary, 
where  I  engaged  lodgings  with  a  bankrupt  innkeeper. 
The  barroom  was  officially  sealed  up,  but  I  got  the 
impression  that  neither  the  landlord  nor  his  patrons 


132  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

went  wholly  dry  on  that  account.  There  was  a  closet 
or  inner  room  to  which  he  and  they  retired  when  there 
was  occasion,  and  whence  they  reappeared  with  a  sus- 
picious cheerfulness  and  a  telltale  moisture  about  their 
mouths.  The  people  among  the  hills  do  not  acquiesce 
willingly  in  government  control  of  the  liquor  business, 
and  they  evade  the  law  in  more  ways  than  one  — 
most  often  perhaps  by  illicit  manufacture.  When  you 
see  on  an  early  morning  far  off  across  the  apparently 
deserted  bogs  a  wisp  of  smoke  arising,  it  is  not  unlikely 
that  marks  the  place  of  a  still.  Drinkers  say  that  a 
glass  of  "  potheen,"  as  the  outlawed  whiskey  is  called, 
is  worth  a  pint  of  such  stuff  as  they  get  in  the  towns. 
They  can  always  tell  it  by  its  smoky  taste,  and  by  a 
slight  catching  in  the  throat,  produced  partly  by  the 
conditions  under  which  it  is  made,  and  partly  by  its 
comparative  newness  —  for  the  bogland  "  shebeens  " 
have  not  facilities  for  keeping  their  liquor  as  long  as 
the  ripening  really  requires. 

The  drive  from  Dunglow  had  been  a  chilly  one, 
with  fog  and  showers,  and  I  sought  the  hotel  kitchen 
and  sat  down  by  the  turf  fire.  A  barefoot  girl  was 
puttering  around  doing  the  housework,  and  later  a 
barefoot  old  woman  came  in  and  seated  herself  on  a 
low  stool  beside  the  fireplace  opposite  me.  Then  she 
got  out  a  short  clay  pipe  and  began  to  smoke,  and  I  was 
glad  to  escape  to  an  apartment  upstairs  where  dinner 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  133 

had  been  made  ready  for  me.  This  room  did  its  best 
to  attain  a  suggestion  of  elegance  by  having  its  win- 
dows draped  with  lace  curtains  (soiled  and  somewhat 
torn)  and  its  floor  adorned  with  a  carpet  and  several 
goat-skin  rugs  that  imparted  their  own  peculiar  flavor 
to  the  stuffy  atmosphere. 

My  sleeping-place  was  in  an  adjoining  chamber  —  a 
sort  of  closet  opening  off  a  narrow  hall,  with  no  win- 
dows and  no  daylight  save  what  came  in  across  the 
hall  when  the  door  was  ajar.  Nearly  all  the  floor 
space  was  monopolized  by  the  bed  and  a  chair  with  a 
washbowl  on  it.  The  hall  too  had  its  peculiarities, 
especially  in  the  matter  of  illumination ;  for  it  was 
customary  to  temper  its  evening  gloom  with  the  light 
of  a  lone  little  candle  set  on  a  window  sill  in  a  hard- 
ened puddle  of  its  own  grease  dripped  there  for  the 
purpose,  and  serving  instead  of  a  candlestick. 

Doochary  consisted  of  a  few  whitewashed  two-story 
houses  in  a  group  by  a  little  river  of  hurrying,  roily 
water.  Heaps  of  ashes  and  manure,  the  wreck  of  a 
cart  and  other  rubbish,  bestrewed  the  wayside  in  the 
village  centre.  Extreme  poverty  seemed  evident,  yet 
I  noticed  that  a  beggar  who  made  a  tour  of  the  place, 
going  to  each  house-door  in  turn  with  a  business-like 
impartiality  and  precision,  was  by  no  means  unsuc- 
cessful. The  beggar  was  an  old  man  in  patched  and 
faded   clothing   that   looked   historic.     Though   past 


134  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

his  prime,  he  was  still  vigorous  and,  as  one  of  the  vil- 
lagers remarked,  "  betther  able  to  work  than  some  o' 
thim  here  that's  tryin'  to  keep  a  wee  holdin'."  The 
villager  used  a  Scotch  expression  in  his  comment,  and 
I  often  heard  Scotch  terms  used  all  through  Donegal, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  people  are  purely  Irish. 
The  explanation  is  that  they  get  these  words  from  con- 
tact with  the  Scotch  in  the  richer  farming  country  to 
the  east,  and  in  Scotland  itself,  to  which  great  numbers 
make  annual  pilgrimages  to  work  during  the  corn  and 
potato  harvest. 

One  thing  I  regret  having  missed  in  my  Donegal 
journeyings  was  the  Doon  Well,  famed  far  and  wide 
for  its  miraculous  cures.  It  is  not  by  any  means  the 
only  well  of  healing  in  Ireland,  but  is  at  present,  I 
believe,  the  most  notable.  Its  situation  is  peculiarly 
secluded.  The  nearest  town  is  Kilmacrenan,  from 
which  it  is  about  three  miles  distant  off  on  a  waste  of 
moorland.  There  you  find  it,  roughly  roofed  with 
stones,  on  a  level  green  space  under  the  shadow  of  a 
rude  bluff.  A  rivulet  trickles  away  from  it,  and  on  the 
bank  by  the  streamside,  at  some  remove  from  the  well, 
the  pilgrims  sit  to  take  off  their  shoes  and  wash  their 
feet ;  for  you  must  go  to  the  fount  barefooted. 

But  the  most  interesting  adjunct  of  the  well  is  a 
group  of  crutches  thrust  into  the  sod  and  left  standing 
there  by  persons  who  have  come  crippled  and  gone 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  135 

away  restored  and  sound.  The  sight  is  the  more  pic- 
turesque and  touching  because  the  crutches  are  swathed 
in  rags  —  rags  that  the  cripples  have  worn  in  sickness, 
and  which  long  exposure  to  the  weather  has  cleansed 
and  softened  to  tints  that  are  in  pleasing  harmony  with 
the  surrounding  landscape. 

The  healing  virtues  of  the  well  are  not  limited  to 
those  who  visit  it  and  drink  of  its  water  on  the  spot, 
and  the  pilgrims  nearly  all  fill  bottles  to  carry  away 
with  them,  either  for  further  use  of  their  own  or  for 
ailing  friends.  The  ground  itself  is  consecrated,  and  the 
prayers  offered  at  the  well  are  believed  to  be  specially 
effective,  even  where  loved  ones  far  across  the  sea  are 
made  their  subject.  No  record  of  cures  is  kept  at  this 
humble  resort,  and  how  many  are  benefited  is  un- 
certain ;  but  the  Irish  peasants  are  excellent  subjects 
for  faith-healing,  and  cures,  more  or  less  lasting,  are 
undoubtedly  numerous. 

What  I  saw  of  the  Irish  Highlands  after  leaving 
Doochary  was  not  essentially  different  in  scenery  or 
people  from  that  already  described.  There  were  the 
same  bogs  and  sombre  loughs  and  stony  mountains, 
and  the  same  low  cabins  and  tiny  fields.  Small  hold- 
ings, subdivided  by  family  inheritance  for  centuries, 
are  the  rule,  the  majority  of  them  under  fifteen  acres. 
The  land  is  too  poor  for  the  peasants  to  more  than 
eke  out  a  miserable  existence  in  the  best  of  times  on 


136  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

such  holdings,  and  when  the  crops  fail,  there  is  great 
distress.  Yet,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  so  keen 
is  the  demand  for  land,  that  from  twenty  to  thirty 
pounds  is  readily  obtained  for  the  tenant  rights  of  one 
of  these  little  bogland  farms.  The  rentals  vary  from 
five  shillings  to  three  or  four  pounds.  This  simply 
pays  for  the  use  of  the  land.  The  tenants  themselves, 
after  the  custom  almost  universal  in  Ireland,  must 
erect  their  own  houses,  put  up  their  own  fences,  and 
do  all  their  own  draining  and  reclaiming ;  and  then, 
when  a  man  has,  by  his  personal  exertions,  increased 
the  value  of  his  holding,  the  rent  is  very  likely 
raised. 

Still,  not  all  landlords  are  extortionate,  nor  are  all 
peasants  unsophisticated  and  unequal  to  the  task  of 
coping  with  the  landowners  and  their  agents.  It  is 
said  that  many  farmers  do  all  in  their  power  to  appear 
poor ;  that  they  come  to  pay  their  rent  in  their  worst 
clothes,  and  are  careful  beforehand  to  get  their  bank- 
notes changed  into  small  silver,  hoping  the  possession 
of  only  sixpences  and  shillings  will  give  such  an 
appearance  of  difficulty  in  getting  the  money  together, 
as  to  gain  credence  for  their  assertions  of  poverty. 
Then,  with  the  whole  amount  due  in  their  pockets, 
they  try  to  get  the  agent  to  accept  half.  The  case 
has  two  sides,  doubtless,  and  both  parties  have  their 
troubles,  and  neither  is  wholly  fair  to  the  other. 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal  137 

One  thoughtful  observer,  with  whom  I  talked,  said 
that  the  greatest  evil  with  which  the  peasantry  have  to 
contend  is  not  their  hard  surroundings  or  the  rents, 
but  their  tendency  to  run  into  debt  at  the  shops.  He 
regarded  the  shops  as  encouragers  of  extravagance. 
They  have  multiplied,  until  now  they  are  scattered  all 
over  the  country,  and  are  too  easily  accessible  to  the 
people,  who  buy  foolish  luxuries  and  squander  on 
trinkets  and  unnecessaries,  and  live  beyond  their 
means.  They  purchase  on  credit,  and  many  do  not 
know  what  they  really  owe,  and  do  not  dare  to  ask. 
They  are  timid  in  the  presence  of  the  shopman,  who 
has  them  in  his  power,  and  they  buy  without  saying 
anything  of  price,  only  intent  on  getting  the  things  to 
satisfy  their  immediate  desires.  When  the  boys  and 
girls  come  home  in  November  from  service  on  the 
lowland  farms,  and  the  men  and  young  women  return 
from  Scotland,  their  wages  in  part  pay  the  rent,  but  in 
larger  part  go  to  the  shopkeepers.  Then  the  accounts 
begin  to  grow  again,  and  if  any  balance  is  carried 
over,  a  high  rate  of  interest  is  charged. 

The  people  live  largely  on  what  they  raise  —  pota- 
toes, cabbages,  and  turnips  —  but  most  of  them  pur- 
chase flour,  a  small  quantity  at  a  time,  and  bake  it 
into  bread.  Tea,  likewise,  has  of  late  years  become  a 
household  necessity  for  old  and  young.  They  use 
fish  to  a  considerable  extent,  and  now  and  then  indulge 


138  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

in  a  bit  of  bacon.  When  the  potatoes  are  gone,  the 
poorer  folk  buy  "Injun  "  meal,  and  the  more  prosper- 
ous get  oatmeal.  The  porridge  is  eaten  with  milk 
ordinarily,  but  if  the  cows  are  not  giving  milk,  or  if  no 
cows  are  owned,  the  porridge  is  eaten  "  dry."  Some 
farmers  keep  as  many  as  eight  or  ten  cows,  but  they 
are  not  high  grade  beasts,  and  a  bogland  cow  only 
gives  "  about  as  much  as  a  good  goat."  Surplus  butter 
is  sold  to  carts  which  make  frequent  trips  through  the 
region  picking  up  produce  in  exchange  for  groceries. 
The  carts  take  practically  all  the  eggs  and  poultry,  as 
well  as  the  butter,  for  the  farmers  rarely  eat  eggs, 
and  only  sacrifice  a  hen  or  a  duck  for  the  home  table 
at  Christmas  or  for  Easter  Sunday.  Even  when  a  pig 
is  slaughtered,  nearly  all  of  it  is  sold  except  the  liver. 

As  a  rule,  the  poultry  are  domiciled  in  rude  little  huts 
built  in  handy  nooks  close  about  the  house.  These 
are  dark  and  windowless,  only  three  or  four  feet  high, 
and  not  much  deeper  or  broader,  with  sides  of  stone 
and  roofs  of  sod  or  thatch.  Where  the  poultry  share 
the  dwelling  with  the  family,  a  place  is  usually  slatted 
off  for  their  night  quarters  at  the  end  of  the  kitchen, 
but  sometimes  roosts  are  put  up  immediately  inside 
the  entrance,  high  enough  to  be  out  of  the  way.  The 
cabin  door  is  apt  to  be  in  two  halves,  and  when  the 
upper  half  is  open  and  the  lower  shut,  which  is  ordi- 
narily the  case  from  early  morning  until  sundown,  the 


The  Highlands  of  Donegal 


139 


hens  find  the  arrangement  very  convenient  in  assisting 
them  to  mount  to  their  roosting  place  after  their  day's 
foraging.  It  is  not  much  trouble  to  flap  up  to  the 
half  door,  and  then  the  rest  of  the  flight  to  the  roosts 
is  easily  completed. 

Life  on  the  Donegal  moorlands  is  much  the  same 
from  year  to  year.  It  is  a  day-to-day  struggle,  and 
the  prospect  never  attains  much  brightness.  Yet  the 
Highlanders  are  an  independent  race  and  do  not  ask 
for  charity.  To  me  they  seemed  hardy  and  indus- 
trious to  an  unusual  degree;  and  I  could  not  but  regret 
that  the  conditions  of  their  homeland  were  not  more 
favorable. 


VIII 


PEASANT    LIFE    IN    CONNEMARA 


A: 


S  compared  with  the  other  divi- 
sions of  Britain,  Ireland  has 
a  run-down,  out-at-the-heels 
look  that  is  depressing.  Both  the 
country  districts  and  the  towns  show 
marked  signs  of  dilapidation,  decay, 
and  thriftlessness.  There  are  broken 
walls  and  litter  in  the  neighborhood 
of  all  the  villages  and  cities,  and  the 
land  commonly  has  the  appearance  of 
being  tilled  neither  energetically  nor 
carefully. 

I  was  more  than  ever  impressed  by 
this  aspect  of  melancholy  in  an 
August  trip  I  made  across  the  Island 
from  Dublin  to  Gal  way.  The  country,  as  seen  from 
the  car  window,  was  uniformly  flat,  and  much  of  it  was 
bogland  —  wide,  brown,  unfenced  grazing  wastes  with 
black  stacks  of  peat  scattered  over  them,  and  dark 
pools  gleaming  in  the  cuttings.     Now  and  then  there 

140 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  141 

were  places  in  the  bogs  where  the  heather  grew  in 
great  masses  of  pink  bloom ;  but  it  was  only  in  patches, 
and  never  covered  acres  and  miles  as  on  the  Highland 
moors  of  Scotland. 

I  travelled  third  class,  and  though  that  gave  me  a 
chance  to  see  more  of  life  than  in  one  of  the  better 
apartments,  the  discomfort  was  rather  greater  than  I 
anticipated.  In  England  the  average  third-class  car- 
riage, in  spite  of  its  being  very  plain  and  boxy,  is  quite 
satisfactory  for  a  ride  of  moderate  length.  But  in 
Ireland  it  is  entirely  cushionless,  and  the  men  smoke 
and  spit  with  the  most  barbaric  freedom.  The  people 
were,  however,  lively  and  talkative,  and  almost  without 
exception  were  good-natured  and  accommodating. 
They  were  much  inclined  to  excitement  at  the  stations, 
and  there  was  always  a  commotion  and  a  scramble  to 
get  hold  of  the  baggage  as  it  was  unloaded  from  the 
van. 

A  tendency  to  loiter  till  the  last  moment  on  the 
platform  was  manifest  among  intending  travellers,  and 
when  the  train  prepared  to  start  the  guard  had  to  cry, 
"  Take  your  sates  !  "  vehemently,  to  get  the  passengers 
on  board. 

At  one  place  several  girls  entered  my  apartment,  and 
an  old  man,  who  was  seeing  them  off  and  giving  them 
all  sorts  of  directions,  presently  bethought  himself  to 
step  to  the  lunch  room  and  buy  some  ginger  beer  for 


142  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

a  treat.  He  came  back  with  a  bottle  and  a  glass  just 
as  the  conductor  was  slamming  the  doors  and  warning 
everybody  to  get  on.  That  put  the  old  gentleman  in 
a  flurry,  and  when  he  tried  to  pour  the  beer  he  did  not 
hold  the  bottle  right,  and  the  glass  ball  in  the  neck 
kept  rolling  down  and  stopping  the  passage,  so  that 
with  each  attempt  he  only  got  a  few  drops.  The  train 
began  to  move,  and  one  of  the  girls  snatched  bottle 
and  glass.  She  was  more  successful  in  her  pouring, 
but  the  old  gentleman  was  reaching  in  at  the  window 
in  great  turmoil  to  get  the  things  back. 

"  Here,"  said  the  girl,  handing  out  the  bottle,  "  I'll 
give  you  that,  anyway." 

"  The  glass,  the  glass  too !  "  cried  the  old  man,  now 
breaking  into  a  trot  to  keep  pace  with  the  accelerating 
speed  of  the  train. 

After  taking  one  more  hasty  gulp  the  girl  relin- 
quished the  glass,  and  then  to  our  surprise  the  train 
slowed  up  sharply  and  came  to  a  standstill.  We  had 
made  a  false  start — been  switching  or  something  of 
that  sort  —  and  we  had  only  gone  a  few  rods.  In  a 
moment  the  old  gentleman  was  at  the  window,  panting, 
with  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  forehead.  He  handed 
in  the  glass  and  the  bottle  again,  and  the  girls  finished 
the  beverage  at  their  leisure.  The  passengers  were  all 
much  pleased  over  the  performance,  especially  a  man 
with  a  bottle  of  his  own  sticking  out  the  inside  pocket 


Mowing 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  143 

of  his  coat.  "Ah,"  said  he,  "sure,  we'd  be  nearly 
arrivin'  at  Galway  now  if  it  wasn't  for  your  drinkin' !  " 

We  passed  many  little,  gray,  stone  towns  along  our 
route,  and  now  and  then  a  ruined  tower  or  castle.  The 
cottages  that  I  saw  from  the  car  window  were  small, 
with  whitewashed  walls,  thatched  roofs,  and  a  good 
deal  of  filth  and  rubbish  about  the  yards.  In  the  fields 
were  numerous  cattle  feeding,  goats  and  geese  were 
common,  and  donkeys,  the  national  beasts  of  burden, 
popularly  believed  to  be  equal  to  anything,  and  to  be 
able  to  live  on  air  if  occasion  demands,  were  omni- 
present. The  fields  were  pleasantly  green,  and  looked 
fairly  fertile,  and  a  most  attractive  touch  was  bestowed 
on  the  landscape  by  the  old  hedgerows.  These  were 
at  this  season  just  maturing  their  fruit  —  little  hawthorn 
apples  with  so  strong  a  reddish  tinge  as  to  give  the 
bushes  the  appearance  of  being  full  of  bright  blossoms. 

At  Galway  I  stayed  over  night.  It  is  a  battered 
old  town,  with  many  lofty  stone  warehouses  in  the 
business  section,  but  a  large  fraction  of  these  were 
grimly  vacant,  and  the  place  did  not  look  as  if  it  was 
thriving.  A  few  years  ago  there  was  hope  of  rejuve- 
nating it  by  making  it  the  terminus  of  a  line  of  Atlantic 
greyhounds.  The  harbor  furnished  a  fine  anchorage, 
and  the  port  is  nearer  New  York  than  any  other  in 
Europe.  The  passage  would  be  eight  hours  shorter 
than  to  Queenstown,  and  the  mail  expenses  would  be 


144  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

materially  reduced.  A  million  dollars  were  spent  in 
jetties,  quays,  docks,  and  basins,  but  the  entrance  to 
the  harbor  is  difficult,  and  the  loss  of  a  large  steamer 
which  struck  a  forgotten  reef  and  foundered  in  sight 
of  the  town  damped  all  enthusiasm,  and,  except  for  a 
few  small  emigrant  ships,  Galway  has  as  little  sea  traffic 
as  ever. 

In  ancient  times  the  port  was  much  frequented  by 
merchants  from  Spain,  with  which  country  it  had  a  con- 
siderable commerce.  The  town  still  retains  architectu- 
ral peculiarities,  due  to  the  old-time  Spanish  influence 
—  houses  decorated  with  fantastic,  weather-worn  carv- 
ings, and  buildings  that  have  a  court  in  the  centre  with 
a  gateway  opening  into  the  street.  Perhaps  the  most 
interesting  reminiscence  of  the  past,  to  the  stranger,  is 
that  recalled  by  a  tablet  on  the  wall  of  St.  Nicholas 
Churchyard  commemorating  the  "  stern  and  unbending 
justice  "  of  James  Lynch  Fitz-Stephen,  who  was  mayor 
of  the  city  some  four  hundred  years  ago.  A  son  had 
conspired  with  the  crew  of  a  ship  in  which  he  was 
returning  from  a  voyage,  to  murder  the  captain  and 
convert  the  property  to  their  own  use.  For  this  crime 
the  son  was  tried  and  condemned  to  death  by  his 
father,  the  mayor.  The  young  man  had  numerous 
friends,  and  they  laid  their  plans  to  go  enmass  and 
intercede  for  him,  but  the  father  learned  of  their 
intentions,  and  lest  their  pleadings  should  swerve  him 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  145 

from  fulfilling  the  demands  of  the  law,  he  caused  the 
condemned  man  to  be  executed  before  their  arrival. 
When  they  approached  the  house  they  saw  the  son's 
lifeless  body  dangling  from  one  of  the  windows. 

Down  by  the  shore  of  Galway  Bay,  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  city,  live  the  fishing  folk  in  a  community  by 
themselves.  Their  houses  are  whitewashed  cabins,  with 
thatch  roofs,  and  the  inhabitants  are  purely  Celtic,  cling- 
ing to  the  Irish  language  and  to  antiquated  customs 
and  costumes.  They  elect  their  own  chief  magistrate 
or  "  King"  yearly,  and  although  under  the  same  munici- 
pal rule  as  the  rest  of  the  city,  they  acknowledge  the 
authority  of  their  king  as  supreme  in  regard  to  many  of 
their  affairs.  While  I  was  loitering  in  their  village,  I 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  boy  carrying  a  scrawny 
black  kitten.  He  was  all  in  tatters  from  head  to  foot, 
but  he  was  entirely  unconscious  of  his  attire,  and  was 
wholly  cheerful.  "  It  is  me  own  cat,"  he  said,  referring 
to  the  creature  in  his  arms ;  "  and,  bedad,  it  runned 
away  yisterday,  and  sure,  I  have  hunted  the  town  all 
over,  till  to-day  I  found  it." 

The  lad  looked  as  if  he  had  gone  through  as  many 
trials  in  his  quest  of  rescue  as  any  knight  of  the  old  le- 
gends. He  was  going  on  to  relate  these  in  detail,  when 
a  woman  coming  down  the  street  hailed  him.  She 
was  apparently  his  mother,  for  she  spoke  with  authority. 
"  Will  you  come  home,  thin  ?  "  said  she,  and  she  picked 


146  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

up  a  stone  and  threw  it,  to  show  him  she  meant  busi- 
ness.    We  both  dodged,  and  in  haste  parted  company. 

From  Galway  I  went  by  rail  northward  into  a  much 
more  rugged  region  than  any  I  had  seen  in  the  jour- 
ney across  the  island.  The  bogs  bordered  desolate 
lakes,  and  the  stony  Connemara  Mountains  rose  in 
ragged  outlines.  This  railroad  on  the  west  coast  had 
been  built  only  a  year,  and  it  gave  easy  access  to  a 
district  where  the  Irish  peasant  could  be  seen  unaf- 
fected by  the  march  of  modern  improvement.  Not 
that  the  life  there  is  exceptional ;  for  what  is  true  of 
Connemara,  is  just  as  true  of  many  other  parts  of  Ire- 
land, and  even  in  the  sections  most  favored  the  peasant 
life  is  exceedingly  primitive,  and  the  home  surround- 
ings dubiously  poverty-stricken. 

I  left  the  train  at  a  place  called  Recess,  and  found 
myself  on  the  platform  of  a  lonely  little  station  in  the 
midst  of  a  bog.  No  houses  were  in  sight,  but  a  man 
with  a  jaunting-car  took  me  aboard,  and  raced  his 
horse  for  a  hotel  a  mile  away,  as  if  he  was  going  to 
a  fire.  I  hung  on  for  dear  life,  and  was  thankful 
when   I  alighted  without  mishap. 

At  the  hotel  —  a  whitewashed  stone  building  in  a 
little  wood  on  the  edge  of  a  lough  —  I  was  welcomed 
by  a  slick  waiter,  with  an  expansive  shirt-bosom, 
and  a  posy  in  his  buttonhole.  He  gave  one  the  im- 
pression that  the  hotel  was  a  very  high-toned  establish- 


s 

o 


I 

h 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  147 

ment ;  but  the  interior  was  rather  forlorn,  nevertheless, 
with  its  stained  and  out-of-date  wall-paper,  its  decrepit 
furniture,  and  an  odor  that  suggested  a  need  of  scrub- 
bing and  renovation. 

Soon  after  I  arrived  it  was  announced  that  the 
table  d'hote  dinner  was  ready,  and  about  fifteen  people 
gathered  around  the  long  dining  room  table.  Most 
of  them  were  persons  touring,  who  were  just  stopping 
at  Recess  for  a  day  or  so.  They  would  indulge  in  the 
exertion  of  a  mountain  climb,  would  walk  or  ride  to 
several  spots  in  the  neighborhood  that  were  recom- 
mended as  interestingly  picturesque,  and  then  be  off  to 
do  the  same  at  the  next  place.  But  there  were  two 
men  at  the  head  of  the  table  whose  stay  was  less  fitful. 
They  had  come  for  the  fishing,  and  every  morning 
they  went  off  to  toil  on  the  windy  loughs,  rowing  up 
and  down,  and  up  and  down,  all  day,  through  sunshine 
and  showers,  and  heat  and  cold.  At  dusk  they  re- 
turned with  the  local  peasants  who  had  been  with  them 
to  do  the  pulling  at  the  oars,  and  they  were  met  at  the 
hotel  door  by  the  women  of  their  respective  families 
with  the  question,  "  What  luck  ?  " 

Neither  man  caught  more  than  three  or  four  fish  as 
a  rule  in  any  one  day,  and  as  they  had  to  pay  roundly 
for  the  fishing  privilege,  the  fish  often  cost  them  half  a 
guinea  or  more  apiece.  They  had  a  good  deal  to  say 
about  their  experiences,  but  it  had  very  much  of  a  same- 


148  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

ness,  I  thought,  and  the  most  entertaining  incident  I 
heard  related  was  of  a  rainy  day  when  one  of  the  boats 
neglected  to  carry  along  anything  with  which  to  bail 
out  the  water,  and  a  rower  had  taken  off  a  shoe  and 
made  that  serve  the  purpose.  I  failed  to  see  any 
pleasure  in  spending  two  months,  as  these  men  had, 
in  that  lonely  spot  fishing  those  solemn  loughs. 

The  dining  room  was  a  curious  combination  of  fine 
intentions  and  shabbiness.  The  floor  was  uneven, 
and  the  doors  and  windows  were  warped,  and  had  to 
be  wrestled  with  whenever  the  attempt  was  made  to 
either  open  or  close  them.  At  one  end  of  the  room 
stood  a  piano,  but  it  was  badly  marred  and  out  of  tune. 
The  table  linen  was  dirty,  the  sugar  bowls  were  pewter, 
and  the  knives  and  forks  were  rude  and  much  worn. 
In  the  daytime  a  number  of  hornets  were  buzzing 
about  and  disputing  the  possession  of  the  jam  with  the 
guests.  But  as  an  antidote  to  these  flaws  and  imper- 
fections there  was  our  waiter  with  his  starched  linen 
and  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  and  there  were  the 
fine  big  bouquets  set  along  the  middle  of  the  table, 
and  there  were  the  trout,  freshly  caught  and  beyond 
criticism. 

The  day  following  that  on  which  I  reached  Recess 
was  Sunday,  and  at  breakfast  I  asked  the  waiter  where 
I  could  attend  service.  He  said  there  was  no  church 
anywhere  near,  but  that  the  people  went  to  mass  every 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  149 

other  Sunday  at  a  farmhouse  a  mile  down  the  road. 
This  was  the  alternate  Sunday,  and  service  would  begin 
at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  started  as  soon  as 
breakfast  was  over  and,  warned  that  I  would  be  late 
by  the  intermittent  running  along  the  road  of  three 
women  who  passed  me,  I  walked  rapidly.  When  I 
approached  the  farmhouse  I  could  hear  the  monoto- 
nous voice  of  the  priest  going  through  the  service 
in  the  kitchen.  The  door  was  open  and  I  could  see 
that  the  room  was  packed  with  kneeling  worshippers. 
But  the  house  interior  could  not  accommodate  all  who 
had  come,  and  in  the  yard  were  thirty  or  forty  persons 
more.  They  gathered  as  near  as  they  could  con- 
veniently get  to  the  doorway,  and  knelt  like  their  fel- 
low-worshippers inside.  The  yard  was  narrow  and 
grassless,  and  entirely  open  to  the  highway.  On  one 
side  of  it  were  a  number  of  jaunting-cars  with  their 
shafts  tipped  up  skyward,  and,  tied  to  the  walls  of  a 
neighboring  stable,  was  a  saddled  pony. 

I  felt  a  little  doubtful  as  to  how  to  deport  myself,  and 
I  took  my  place  on  the  outskirts  of  the  open  air  por- 
tion of  the  congregation  near  the  carts,  whence,  through 
the  single  small  kitchen  window,  I  sometimes  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  priest  in  his  white  robes.  The  service 
was  an  hour  long,  and  most  of  that  time  the  people  were 
on  their  knees.  The  yard  was  rough,  and  not  over- 
and-above  neat,  and  the  worshippers  got  down  on  its 


150  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

grit  and  stones  with  reluctance  and  caution,  evidently- 
picking  out  the  softer  and  cleaner  spots.  Sometimes 
a  man  would  ease  a  kneepan  by  putting  under  it  his 
red  bandana  or  his  cap.  A  part  of  the  time  he  would 
be  down  on  one  knee,  then  he  would  change  to  the 
other,  then  get  down  on  both.  One  old  man,  with 
bushy  gray  whiskers  sticking  out  from  under  his  chin  in 
a  prehistoric  semicircle,  found  even  these  changes  insuf- 
ficient, and  now  and  then  would  get  down  on  all  fours. 
In  that  posture  he  looked  very  like  a  monstrous  toad. 

The  sounds  of  the  priest's  voice  came  to  us  outside 
indistinct  and  confused,  and  the  people  in  the  yard 
apparently  kneeled  and  rose  in  unison  with  a  man  next 
the  door  who  had  a  better  opportunity  to  hear  than 
the  rest,  and  who  occasionally  peeked  inside.  The 
open  air  devotees  were  not  specially  attentive.  Their 
eyes  were  constantly  wandering  to  me  or  to  each  other, 
and  their  hands  kept  up  a  lively  rubbing  and  slapping 
in  a  losing  warfare  with  the  abounding  midges. 

At  one  point  the  priest  came  to  the  threshold,  and 
the  outdoor  worshippers  all  hurried  into  a  huddled 
group  about  him,  while  he  threw  holy  water  on  them. 
He  did  the  job  by  wholesale,  using  a  stick  with  a  swab 
on  the  end.  This  swab  he  dipped  into  a  bowl  that  he 
held  in  his  left  hand,  and  then  made  sudden  flings 
this  way  and  that  out  on  the  audience,  the  members  of 
which  would  keep  up  an  awkward  hopping  movement, 


s 

H 


> 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  151 

as  if  in  an  ecstatic  eagerness  to  feel  some  of  the  pre- 
cious drops  trickling  over  them. 

When  the  service  ended  the  congregation  straggled 
off,  some  up  the  road,  some  down,  some  following 
paths  across  the  bogs,  and  a  few  lingering  in  the  yard 
to  visit.  A  young  fellow  mounted  the  saddled  horse, 
and  other  horses  were  brought  from  the  stable  and 
hitched  into  the  jaunting-cars.  Such  men  as  had  a 
team  would  light  their  pipes  as  soon  as  they  finished 
hitching  up,  then  would  start  the  horse  and  clamber 
up  to  the  seat  from  either  side,  just  as  the  creature  was 
breaking  into  a  trot.  This  hit-or-miss  tumbling  on 
looked  reckless  to  me,  but  its  spice  of  gymnastic 
unconventionality  seemed  to  just  suit  the  Irish  nature. 

I  chose  to  make  a  detour  in  returning  to  my  hotel, 
and  went  off  on  a  bog  road  that  led  to  a  straggling 
group  of  four  or  five  cottages.  The  road  grew  more 
crooked  and  narrow  and  fuller  of  ledges  and  loose 
stones  with  each  house  I  passed,  till  it  conducted  me 
into  the  barnyard  of  a  final  dwelling  and  stopped. 
But  I  climbed  over  the  wall  and  went  on  across  the 
water-soaked  barren  of  the  bog.  My  route  was  one 
of  frequent  zigzags,  to  avoid  the  spots  that  looked  wet- 
test and  softest,  but  in  spite  of  all  my  care  in  jumping 
from  grass-tuft  to  grass-tuft,  I  could  not  avoid  getting 
wet  feet.  I  thought  I  knew  just  how  to  cut  across  the 
bog  to  my  hotel,  but  the  heaving  surface  of  the  marsh 


152  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

was  so  uniformly  sober  and  so  without  mark  of  tree  or 
stone  that  as  soon  as  I  lost  sight  of  the  hamlet  through 
which  I  had  passed,  I  was  confused  and  had  naught  to 
guide  me  but  a  general  idea  of  direction.  I  went  on 
thus  for  some  time,  and  then  came  to  a  lonely  little 
ruin.  It  was  a  single  small  building  with  walls  still 
entire.  The  roof  was  there,  too,  but  it  had  fallen 
down  within  the  walls  at  one  end. 

At  first  glance  I  took  it  for  granted  that  the  place 
was  deserted,  yet  a  closer  approach  revealed  a  potato 
patch  by  the  door,  and  wisps  of  smoke  were  streaking 
up  from  the  peak  of  the  gable  that  had  not  yet  parted 
company  with  the  thatch.  I  was  about  to  look  in 
at  the  open  door  when  two  cows  walked  out.  A 
third  stood  inside  chewing  her  cud.  She  turned 
her  head  and  regarded  me  with  mild-eyed  interest. 
It  was  a  curious  apartment,  with  the  half-fallen  roof 
high  at  one  end  and  slanting  down  to  the  floor  at 
the  other.  By  chance  the  rafters  had  so  dropped 
that  the  thatch  remained  complete,  or  else  it  had 
been  made  weather-proof  where  it  lay,  by  adjusting 
and  patching.  Against  the  farther  wall  were  set  two 
chairs,  and  above  them  was  a  shelf  holding  a  few  dishes, 
and  there  was  a  little  fireplace  with  some  fragments  of 
peat  smouldering  on  the  hearth.  Otherwise  the  room 
looked  like  a  rude  stable.  The  house  had  one  tiny 
window,  but  even  that  was  unglazed,  and  was  just  a 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  153 

square  hole  in  the  wall.  No  doubt  it  was  stuffed tyrith 
sedge  in  bad  weather  —  that  is,  if  this  really  was  a 
human  habitation.  But  I  saw  neither  man,  woman, 
nor  child,  and  came  away  wondering.  Did  those  three 
cows  keep  house  there  on  the  remote  bogland  unbe- 
known to  every  one,  after  the  manner  of  animals  in  the 
fairy  tales,  or  was  it  all  a  dream  ? 

I  continued  for  some  distance  over  the  bog,  in  what 
I  judged  was  the  direction  of  my  hotel,  and  was  begin- 
ning to  fear  I  had  gone  hopelessly  astray,  when  I 
espied  a  boy  on  donkey-back  riding  across  the  waste. 
I  called  and  beckoned  to  him,  and  he  stopped  and 
waited  till  I  came  up.  In  response  to  my  questions 
he  told  me  where  to  find  a  path  that  would  lead  me 
back  to  civilization,  and  I  left  him  seated  stock-still  on 
his  donkey,  twisted  half  around,  gaping  at  me  as  if  I 
was  beyond  his  comprehension.  But  after  the  space 
of  a  minute  or  two  I  noticed  he  had  slipped  off  his 
creature's  back  and  was  searching  in  the  bog.  Then 
he  remounted  with  something  in  his  hand,  and  came 
cantering  along  awkwardly  in  my  wake  to  offer  me,  in 
the  hope  of  a  tip,  a  sprig  of  white  heather  he  had  picked. 
White  heather  is  comparatively  rare,  and  besides,  it 
has  a  touch  of  romantic  interest ;  for  if  a  lover  pre- 
sents to  his  lady  a  bouquet  of  it,  she  understands  that 
he  has  in  a  delicate  way  proposed  marriage.  I  gave 
the  boy  a  bit  of  silver,  and  then  it  occurred  to  me  to 


154  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

inquire  about  the  little  ruin  of  a  house  back  on  the 
bog. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  that's  the  house  of  an  ould  body- 
by  the  name  o'  Mary  McCarty,  and  sure,  here  comes 
hersilf,  now." 

A  barefoot  woman  with  a  colored  handkerchief  tied 
about  her  head  was  approaching.  She  greeted  the  boy 
familiarly  when  she  came  near,  and  asked  him,  with  a 
good  deal  of  angry  and  distressed  perturbation,  if  he 
had  seen  any  of  "  thim  villains"  who  had  been  stealing 
her  hay.  It  seemed  she  had  mowed  a  little  piece  near 
her  cabin  with  her  hand  sickle,  and  while  she  was  away 
some  men  had  come  —  "  the  nagurs !  and  they  got  two 
loads  off  from  me  —  as  much  as  they  could  carry  on 
their  backs." 

The  crime  was  all  the  blacker  because  she  had  no 
one  but  herself  to  "  depind  on."  She  lived  alone  in 
the  hut,  save  that  with  her  in  the  tiny  broken-roofed 
apartment  were  housed  her  three  cows.  The  bit  of 
land  she  cultivated  and  the  cows  barely  kept  her  from 
starvation.  Then,  too,  she  did  not  know  when  the 
house  would  be  down  on  her  head. 

"  Many's  the  time,"  said  she,  "  in  a  storrum,  when 
in  fear  of  me  life  I  have  gone  out  and  stayed  in  the 
open  sandpit  at  the  back  till  the  storrum  was  over. 
Ah,  it  is  a  poor  place,  sir,  and  sure,  there's  no  worse 
in  all  Erin  !  " 


Getting   out   Peat 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  155 

And  it  seemed  to  me  then,  as  it  does  now,  in  recall- 
ing all  I  have  seen  of  the  Irish  cabins  in  various  parts 
of  the  island,  that  she  was  right. 

When  we  parted,  the  woman  and  boy  went  away  in 
company  across  the  bogland  desolation,  and  I  kept 
along  a  vague  path  that  led  me  in  time  to  several 
houses  straggling  along  a  steep  slope,  at  the  foot  of 
which  flowed  a  little  river.  The  single  village  lane, 
with  a  tiny  rivulet  trickling  among  its  stones,  was  about 
as  much  like  the  bed  of  a  brook  as  it  was  a  roadway, 
and  whenever  there  was  a  heavy  rain  it  must  have  con- 
tained a  torrent.  I  followed  the  lane  through  the  house 
dooryards  until  I  met  an  old  man  driving  two  cows 
up  to  their  pasturage  on  the  moor.  He  stopped  me, 
apparently  for  the  express  purpose  of  imparting  the 
information  that  he  was  one  hundred  years  old.  With 
his  lean  figure,  his  faded  eyes,  and  his  loose-hung  chin 
covered  with  gray  stubble,  he  looked  as  old  as  he  said 
he  was,  but  driving  cows  seemed  a  rather  sprightly 
occupation  for  a  centenarian. 

I  asked  him  how  I  should  get  to  my  hotel,  and 
when,  with  some  difficulty,  he  got  his  mind  off  his 
age  and  concentrated  on  this  new  topic,  he  led  me 
to  a  knoll  a  little  higher  up,  and  pointed  out  the 
hotel's  white  walls  a  half  mile  distant  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river  in  the  hollow.  He  said  I  could 
cross  the  stream  by  some  stepping-stones  "  down  be- 


156  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

yant."  I  descended  the  hillside  to  the  spot  indicated, 
but  the  stones,  though  they  made  what  would  be  a 
fair  crossing  for  a  goat,  or  the  barefooted  natives,  were 
too  unstable  for  a  Christian  used  to  bridges.  Some 
children  had  followed  me  from  the  village,  after  the 
manner  of  their  kind,  and  were  watching  my  hesitation 
with  interest.  From  them  I  learned  that  there  were 
better  stepping-stones  farther  up. 

I  kept  along  the  marshy  shores,  over  walls,  through 
briers  and  sloughs,  with  now  and  then  a  pause  to 
pick  some  of  the  luscious  blackberries  that  abounded. 
Far  up  above  sat  a  man  on  a  boulder  smoking 
his  pipe,  and  meditatively  watching  me,  but  when 
he  noted  presently  that  I  was  having  difficulty  in 
getting  through  a  thorny  hedge,  down  he  came  to 
my  assistance  and  broke  aside  the  bushes.  Then  he 
led  the  way  across  several  little  fields  to  the  step- 
ping-stones, and  went  skipping  over  them  with  a 
nimbleness  that  was  far  beyond  my  abilities.  He 
said  the  water  often  came  up  and  covered  the  stones 
clean  out  of  sight. 

How  do  you  cross,  then  ?  "  I  asked. 

We  have  to  wade  it,  bedad ! "  was  the  response. 
Thim  as  hasn't  a  harsey  to  ride,  is  the  worst  afF — 
for,  sure,  sir,  thim  that  is  on  foot  go  through  the 
wather  at  the  danger  of  their  lives." 

It  was  a  relief  to  get  across  the  stream,  and  it  was  a 


cc 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  157 

relief  to  escape  from  the  bog,  and  I  was  heartily  glad 
when  I  reached  my  hotel,  thoroughly  tired,  hungry, 
and  belated. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  following  I  went  for 
another  bogland  walk,  up  a  long  hiliocky  slope  near 
the  hotel.  The  earth  was  spongy  and  yielding.  A 
mass  of  moss  overspread  its  surface,  intermingled  with 
scanty  and  unthrifty  grasses,  clumps  of  heather,  and  a 
scattering  of  reeds.  Here  and  there  the  moor  was 
brightened  with  touches  of  delicate  yellow  green,  but 
the  general  tone  was  brownish  and  sombre.  Frequent 
gray  boulders  thrust  up  into  view.  These  became 
more  numerous  as  the  land  rose  higher,  till  I  climbed 
a  ridge  where  the  soil  was  thin  and  strewn  every- 
where with  shattered  rock.  Beyond  this  ridge  was  a 
little  huddle  of  houses  with  an  accompaniment  of  tiny 
stone-walled  fields  running  down  into  a  green  valley. 
The  houses  were  low,  and  their  walls  and  thatched 
roofs  were  dark  colored,  and  so  like  the  surrounding 
bog  that  they  seemed  not  the  work  of  human  beings, 
but  some  huge  mushroom  growths  of  nature.  Not  a 
tree  was  in  sight,  nor  anything  related  to  a  tree,  save 
a  few  little  osier  beds  in  the  garden  patches,  and  these 
osiers  were  quite  inconspicuous,  for  they  were  cut  ofT 
periodically  to  furnish  wands  for  weaving  creels. 

As  soon  as  I  began  to  descend  the  ridge,  a  barefoot 
woman  with  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  a  big  baby  in 


158  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

her  arms  came  hurrying  to  me  from  an  outlying  cabin 
of  the  village.  She  arrived  breathless,  and  thrust  a  bit 
of  green  marble  into  my  hand,  and  called  down  bless- 
ings on  my  head  in  her  fervent  jargon.  All  this  was 
intended  to  soften  my  heart  and  coax  forth  a  tip.  She 
told  with  pride  how  fond  the  little  "  Pat "  in  her  arms 
was  of  money  —  how  if  he  saw  strangers  coming,  he 
would  run  to  her  and  say,  "  Gentlemens  !  gentlemens  ! 
come  and  get  money." 

When  any  one  gave  him  a  bit  he  would  say, 
"  Thank  God,  I've  got  my  money." 

He  was  two  years  old,  but  she  said  he  made  her 
carry  him  everywhere  she  went.  Even  if  she  had  a 
big  sack  of  peat  on  her  back,  she  must  take  him  along 
under  one  arm.  Once,  she  said,  she  gave  him  a  little 
flat  stone  and  tied  it  in  the  corner  of  a  handkerchief, 
and  he  carried  it  about  in  his  bosom  all  day  and  called 
it  his  money. 

Rough,  narrow,  stone-walled  lanes,  crooked  and 
rocky,  connected  cottages.  Blackberry  bushes,  thickly 
dotted  with  ripe  fruit,  straggled  over  the  walls.  I 
thought  it  a  wonder,  in  such  a  starved-looking  com- 
munity where  there  were  plenty  of  children,  that  the 
berries  were  left  to  ripen.  All  through  that  region 
blackberries  were  plenty  and  delicious,  but  few  were 
ever  picked  in  consequence  of  an  old  superstition  that 
they  are  a  cause  of  cholera.     This  belief  is  still  life 


w 

as 

H 

C/3 


2 

< 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  159 

among  the  Irish  peasants.  But  I,  ignorant  of  the  dire 
possibilities  that  lay  in  the  berries,  picked  and  ate 
wherever  I  went. 

While  thus  engaged  in  a  village  lane,  a  young  man 
approached  me,  said,  "  Good  evening  to  your  honor," 
and  jumped  over  a  wall  and  snapped  off  some  choice 
clusters  for  me.  After  that  he  walked  about  in  my 
company,  a  self-constituted  guide.  But  he  was  a 
quick,  intelligent  fellow,  and  I  did  not  object.  His 
name  was  Michael.  Just  above  the  village  was  a 
quarry,  and  many  great  blocks  of  stone,  curiously 
grained  and  colored,  were  lying  round  about.  This 
quarry  had  been  a  short-lived  experiment,  and  was 
not  worked  now.  Michael  said  it  had  given  employ- 
ment to  a  number  of  the  village  men,  and  they  were 
paid  half  a  crown  a  day,  while  some  men  that  were 
"  brought  from  away  earned  as  much  as  five  shillings, 
sir  —  they  did,  sir  !  " 

Now  there  was  no  employment  to  be  had  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  villagers  could  only  work  their 
little  farms  or  leave.  About  all  the  young  men  and 
young  women  went  away  to  the  towns  or  to  America. 
Michael  had  two  brothers  in  Boston.  They  did 
not  write  what  they  were  doing,  but  every  year 
they  sent  home  some  money  to  "the  ould  man," 
his  father. 

The  rents  of  these  little  farms  were  from  two  to  six 


160  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

pounds.  Each  cottager  grew  a  little  field  of  oats, 
another  of  potatoes,  another  of  grass,  and  some  raised 
patches  of  cabbages  or  turnips.  The  crops  were 
grown  mostly  on  the  thin-soiled,  stony  hillsides.  If  a 
man  took  a  field  in  the  meadow  below,  his  neighbors 
thought  he  was  too  well  off,  and  accused  him  of  an 
inclination  to  put  on  airs  and  ape  the  aristocracy. 
Besides  all  this,  it  added  an  extra  pound  to  the  rent. 
Most  of  the  people  kept  two  or  three  cows,  several 
sheep,  and  a  few  hens.  In  some  cases  they  owned  a 
pony  or  a  goat  or  a  flock  of  geese.  There  were  also 
two  half-grown  pigs  that  frequented  the  village  lanes. 
They  were  sharp-nosed,  long-legged  creatures,  nimble 
of  foot,  and  apparently  capable,  in  their  wanderings, 
of  picking  up  their  own  living.  When  at  home  they 
lived  in  their  master's  house.  This  house  had  but  a 
single  room,  and  the  pig-pen  was  in  one  corner.  Aside 
from  the  pigs,  the  family  was  composed  of  a  man  and 
wife  and  three  or  four  children.  Their  abode  was 
windowless,  and  light  came  in  only  through  the  two 
doors  and  possible  chinks  in  the  walls. 

Michael  said  that  in  old  times  they  used  to  keep 
the  pigs  under  the  bed,  but  they  did  not  do  so  in  this 
village  of  Lisouter,  nowadays.  The  people  sold  their 
poultry  at  the  hotel,  and  other  produce  they  took  to 
market  at  the  nearest  town.  Potatoes,  of  course, 
stood  chief  on  their  bill  of  fare,  as  they  do  among 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  161 

the  Irish  peasantry  everywhere.  Some  occasionally 
indulged  in  mutton,  and  most  families  had  oatmeal 
frequently.  Now  and  then  they  bought  fish,  and 
bacon  was  more  or  less  familiar ;  but  many  of  them 
never  knew  the  taste  of  beef. 

The  oats  raised  are  fed  out  to  the  stock,  and  the 
oatmeal  for  house  use  is  bought,  a  bagful  at  a  time. 
Flour  is  purchased  in  the  same  way,  and  bread  is 
baked  in  a  flat  kettle  on  the  hearth.  Very  little  butter 
or  cheese  is  made,  and  what  little  milk  the  poorly  fed 
cows  give  is  drunk  with  the  potatoes  and  oatmeal. 
Since  the  railroad  came,  tea  has  become  a  family  ne- 
cessity, and  all  the  eggs  the  hens  lay  go  in  exchange 
for  it. 

About  the  only  farm  tools  to  be  found  in  Lisouter 
are  spades  —  primitive,  narrow-bladed,  and  one-sided, 
but  apparently  effective.  No  such  contrivance  as  a 
plough  has  ever  been  seen  in  the  village.  The  people 
dig  their  fields  over  by  hand.  Potatoes  are  planted  in 
rows  that  are  nearly  three  feet  wide,  known  as  "  drills," 
and  the  space  between  each  drill  and  the  one  next  it 
is  dug  out  like  a  ditch  and  serves  for  drainage.  The 
potato  tops  grow  in  a  spindling  jungle  on  the  drills, 
much  too  close  together  to  do  well.  Crops  are  not 
rotated,  but  are  grown  over  and  over  on  the  same 
ground,  and  are  never  what  they  might  be.  Often  the 
potatoes  fail  to  come  up  except  scatteringly,  in  which 

M 


1 62  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

case  cabbage  plants  are  set  to  fill  out  the  blanks.  This 
year  had  been  wetter  than  usual,  and  the  "  blight  had 
come  on  the  p'taties  too  early,"  so  that  it  seemed  likely 
the  Lisouter  folk  would  go  on  short  rations  before  the 
next  harvest  time. 

Michael  and  I  ascended  a  crag  at  the  rear  of  the 
hamlet  to  get  a  view.  Several  of  the  village  chil- 
dren tagged  after  all  the  way,  taking  turns  at  begging. 
"Please  give  me  a  copper,  sir  —  only  one,  sir,"  they 
said ;  and  refusals  had  no  effect  whatever  on  them. 
One  boy  of  eight,  still  in  skirts,  had  a  baby  on  his 
back  —  a  solemn,  watchful  baby  that  never  let  out  a 
sound.  The  boy  did  not  seem  to  mind  his  burden, 
but  clambered  everywhere  the  others  did.  These  shoe- 
less children  were  sure-footed  and  nimble,  and  they 
skipped  about  the  rocky  hillside  like  wild  creatures 
of  the  bog.  I  went  high  up  to  where  I  could  look 
down  on  the  long  stretches  of  dreary  marshlands  that 
are  omnipresent  in  the  region,  spotted  and  linked  all 
over  by  the  loughs,  large  and  small.  Far  away  in  the 
west  I  could  catch  a  gleam  of  the  sea,  while  in  the 
near  landscape  the  mountain  crags  were  darkling,  and 
in  the  hollow  close  below  were  the  hovels  of  Lisouter 
and  their  little  patchwork  of  varicolored  fields.  On 
the  way  back  through  the  village  a  stout,  fairly  well- 
dressed  young  man  got  off  the  wall  where  he  had  been 
loafing,  and  came  hulking  after  me.     "  Please,  sir,  give 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  163 

me  the  price  of  an  ounce  of  tobacco/'  he  said.  The 
children  beggars  followed  me  far  down  the  hill.  Beg- 
ging seemed  to  be  constitutional  with  the  Connemara 
peasantry  and  I  always  had  a  persistent  group  in  my 
wake  every  time  I  visited  Lisouter. 

When  I  approached  the  village  a  day  or  two  after- 
ward, a  woman  came  hurrying  across  two  or  three 
fields  with  a  bundle  of  cloth  on  her  arm,  and  greeted 
me  with,  "  Good  marnin',  sir,  an'  sure  it's  a  fine 
marnin,'  sir." 

Then  she  spread  out  the  cloth  along  with  a  few 
coarse  socks  and  urged  me  to  buy.  "Plaze,  sir,"  she 
said,  "  buy  the  friz,  for  the  love  o'  God  and  a  poor 
woman  who's  lost  her  b'y  an'  pit  him  in  the  grave 
only  five  weeks  past." 

She  went  on  to  tell  me  that  she  had  borrowed 
the  money  for  the  boy's  burial  from  a  poor  neighbor 
woman  who  must  be  paid  now,  and  she  with  nothing 
to  pay.  Her  husband  after  the  funeral  had  gone 
far  away  to  get  work,  "  but  he  soon  come  back,  for 
there  were  a  big  weight  on  his  heart,  and  he  could  eat 
nothing  at  all,  at  all."  She  spoke  of  her  eight  chil- 
dren—  "Four  of 'em  I've  given  to  God,  and  four  of 
'em's  alive — God  bless  'em." 

I  went  across  the  fields  to  her  cottage,  squatted 
among  the  stony  patches  of  oats  and  potatoes.  Like 
the  rest  of  the  Lisouter  cabins,  its  stone  walls  were 


164  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

loosely  chinked  with  peat.  Roofs  were  of  sedge  tied 
on  with  straw  ropes  thickly  drawn  over  and  fastened 
to  pegs  under  the  eaves  or  to  stones  hung  along  the 
edges.  The  thatch  was  renewed  every  year.  It  would 
last  two  if  new  ropes  were  put  on  each  time,  but  few 
would  do  that.  The  chimneys  were  insignificant,  and 
hardly  showed  above  the  roofs.  Peat  was  the  only 
fuel  burned.  It  all  came  from  the  bog,  a  sack  at  a 
time,  on  the  women's  backs.  The  Lisouter  folk  never 
saw  coal  till  some  was  brought  for  use  in  an  engine  at 
the  quarry.  Then  they  thought  it  was  rock,  and  it 
was  a  great  wonder  to  them  that  the  stuff  burned. 
Most  never  saw  a  railroad  till  the  local  one  was  put 
through,  the  year  before.  As  soon  as  it  was  finished 
they  all  must  ride  ;  but  when  it  came  to  getting  aboard, 
they  felt  they  were  taking  their  lives  in  their  hands, 
and  at  the  start  the  old  women  were  all  jumping  up 
and  screaming  they  would  be  murdered  and  their 
friends  would  never  see  them  any  more. 

The  woman  with  the  cloth  to  sell  showed  me  into 
her  cottage.  The  door  was  low,  and  I  had  to  stoop  to 
enter.  She  hunted  up  a  level  place  on  the  dirt  floor, 
and  set  out  a  chair  for  me.  A  dim  fire  burned  among 
the  rough  stones  of  the  fireplace,  and  sent  a  little 
smoke  up  the  chimney  and  a  great  deal  of  smoke  out 
into  the  room.  The  kitchen  was  full  of  flies,  and  it 
had  the  odor  of  a  stable.     The  floor  was  much  littered 


O 

o 

o 

o 
z 


Peasant  Life  in  Connemara  165 

with  heather  and  rushes  that  had  been  brought  in  to 
bed  the  cow  and  calf  that  had  a  home  in  one  end  of 
the  kitchen.  On  some  tattered  blankets  thrown  over 
a  heap  of  sedge  near  the  fireplace  two  of  the  children 
slept.  The  rest  of  the  family  had  a  bedroom  beyond 
a  thin  partition. 

My  hostess,  in  the  midst  of  her  talk  with  me,  pulled 
a  short  pipe  from  her  pocket  and  made  much  mourn 
that  she  had  no  tobacco  to  fill  it.  She  said  a  smoke 
was  very  comforting.     "  It's  loike  medicine  to  me." 

My  former  guide,  Michael,  had  come  up  to  the 
cottage,  and  was  talking  outside  with  some  of  the 
beggar  children.  The  woman  saw  him  and  sent  out 
her  ragged  little  girl,  Bridget,  to  "  borrow  the  loan 
of  the  pipe  "  he  was  smoking.  Michael  relinquished 
his  pipe  readily,  and  as  the  woman  whiffed  she  blessed 
him  again  and  again.  When  I  left,  she  blessed  me 
likewise,  saying,  "  Long  life  to  ye !  An'  may  your 
journey  home  be  better  than  the  one  over.  God 
bless  ye,  an'   give  ye  a  safe  crossin'  !  " 

In  a  cabin  a  little  farther  up  the  hill  lived  a  woman 
all  alone.  She  was  still  young  and  not  unattractive. 
Her  husband  had  gone  to  America,  and  he  would  have 
taken  her  with  him,  but  she  would  not  leave.  A  letter 
had  come  from  him  only  the  week  before  in  which  he 
sent  ^3,  and  the  villagers  thought  that  was  doing 
pretty  well.      Her  cottage  was    hedged    in    by  great 


1 66  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

growths  of  nettles  that  flourished  all  about.  The 
roof  leaked  and  the  cabin  had  but  one  room,  which 
the  woman  shared  with  two  cows.  I  looked  in,  but 
did  not  care  to  enter.  It  was  more  like  a  floorless 
stable,  that  had  not  been  cleaned  for  a  week,  than  a 
human  habitation.  The  house  at  some  time  had  had 
a  single  window,  but  this  was  now  loosely  closed  with 
stones.  Most  of  the  Lisouter  houses,  however,  had 
at  least  one  window,  and  several  of  them  had  two, 
though  occasionally  these  lacked  glass.  All  were 
small,  varying  in  number  of  panes  from  one  to  four. 

Mud  and  refuse  were  almost  universal  about  the 
doorways,  and  a  "  midden  "  (manure  heap)  was  always 
handy  near  the  house  front.  A  skeleton  horse  was 
feeding  in  a  waste  near  the  quarry ;  some  old  men, 
working-days  past,  were  sunning  themselves  on  the 
rocks ;  one  or  two  old  women  were  sitting  or  leaning 
on  the  walls  near  their  cabin  doors,  some  in  idleness, 
some  knitting.  In  the  oat  fields  the  men  were  reap- 
ing laboriously  handful  by  handful  with  their  sickles, 
and  the  barefoot  women  followed  behind  to  bind  the 
sheaves.  The  women  gleaned  over  the  ground  as 
they  worked,  and  picked  up  every  straw. 

I  spoke  with  one  man,  and  he  said  he  had  two  or 
three  acres  in  his  farm,  but  it  was  very  poor  land,  and 
in  a  wet  year  his  crops  were  well-nigh  failures.  Still,  he 
considered  himself  better  off  than  most  of  his  neighbors. 


Peasant  Life  in   Connemara  167 

Nearly  every  day  I  saw  the  children  going  to  school 
in  the  morning,  and  met  them  returning  in  the  even- 
ing. Their  aspect  had  the  same  untamed  wildness 
then  that  it  had  as  I  saw  them  running  about  the  bogs 
and  crags  that  surrounded  the  home  village.  The 
schoolhouse  was  four  miles  distant,  and  the  route 
thither  was  along  a  desolate  road  winding  through 
the  dun  marshes.  The  children  went  barefoot  and 
bareheaded,  except  for  a  few  of  the  older  boys,  who 
wore  caps.  They  each  carried  a  piece  of  dry  bread 
for  their  noon  lunch,  and  that  was  all  the  food  they 
had  till  they  returned  home  late  in  the  afternoon. 
But,  with  all  their  hardships,  they  looked  sturdy 
and  healthy.  Probably  weaklings  do  not  survive 
long.  Once  I  noticed  that  a  boy  in  a  group  of 
children  returning  from  school  carried  a  book,  and  I 
asked  to  see  it.  It  was  a  most  forlorn  little  Third 
Reader  —  a  wreck  of  a  book  —  covers  broken,  marked 
and  greasy  within,  and  many  pages  torn  or  gone 
altogether. 

As  I  handed  back  the  book  I  noticed  a  great 
black  bug  crawling  along  the  path,  and  I  pointed  it 
out  to  the  children,  and  said,  "  That's  a  beetle,  isn't 
it?" 

But  they  said,  "No,  it  is  a  prumpalong,  sir." 

They  had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a  beetle. 
"  We  do  not  have  thim  here,  sir,  I  think,"  explained 


1 68  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

one  of  the  older  children ;  "  but  we  have  prumpa- 
longs  —  plinty  of  thim." 

The  schoolhouse  was  a  bare  modern  building  with 
gray  plaster  walls.  It  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  roughs 
rocky  yard,  that  was  surrounded  by  a  high  stone  wall. 
Outside  the  enclosure  all  was  bog,  save  for  three  or 
four  houses  with  their  little  fields  straggling  along  the 
road  not  far  away.  I  inquired  of  the  children  what 
games  they  played  at  school,  and  they  replied  that 
they  raced  after  each  other  some,  and  that  was  all. 
Indeed,  their  intermissions  were  usually  spent  in  just 
sitting  around  and  doing  nothing.  They  indulged 
in  no  games,  even  about  their  homes  in  the  village. 
Apparently,  they  had  lost  the  impulse  to  play,  and 
I  thought  nothing  could  be  more  eloquent  than  this 
of  the  depressing  environment  in  which  they  lived. 

One  of  the  things  I  looked  specially  for  in  Ireland 
was  the  shamrock.  I  had  no  clear  idea  of  what  it  was 
like,  except  that  it  was  green  and  triple-leaved,  and  I 
supposed  it  was  a  native  of  the  bogs.  Often  in  my 
moorland  wanderings  I  saw  a  coarse,  fleshy  plant  that 
grew  in  thin  clumps  where  the  water  gathered  in  pools. 
The  leaves  were  three-parted,  but  larger  than  the 
largest  clover.  Still,  I  thought  it  must  be  shamrock, 
and  picked  some  of  it  and  showed  it  to  a  native.  The 
native  did  not  even  know  the  name  of  my  bogland 
weed,  but  he  stooped  down  and  showed  me  some  of 


Peasant  Life  in   Connemara 


169 


the  true  shamrock  growing  by  the  roadside.  It  is  an 
insignificant,  yet  delicate,  little  plant  that  loves  to  grow 
on  stone  walls  and  along  roadways  where  the  soil  is 
poor  and  often  scraped  away.  It  was  more  like  the 
downtrodden  white  clover  that  in  America  one  finds 
growing  in  dooryard  paths  than  anything  else.  The 
peasantry  feel  a  real  affection  for  the  shamrock,  and  it  is 
beautiful  in  their  eyes.  Like  themselves,  it  lives  amid 
hard  conditions,  and  it  seems  pathetically  appropriate 
that  it  should  be  the  Irish  national  emblem. 


IX 


JAUNTING-CAR   JOURNEYS 


THE  jaunting-car  is  Ire- 
lotiH    o    mr\cf  r'noMrfpfio. 


land's  most  characteris- 
tic vehicle  for  ordinary, 
light  riding.  It  is  a  slender, 
two-wheeled  contrivance  whose 
virtues  and  peculiarities  can 
only  be  fully  appreciated  by 
actual  use.  Immediately  over 
the  wheels  on  either  side  is  a  seat 
facing  outward,  and  accommoda- 
tion for  one's  feet  is  furnished 
by  a  swaying  shelf  or  step  on  a 
level  with  the  hubs.  The  driver 
has  a  seat  in  front,  but  he  never 
occupies  it  unless  the  other  two 
are  filled.  He  usually  has  a  mania  for  going  about 
with  a  breakneck  impetuosity,  and  a  first  experience 
on  a  jaunting-car  is  vividly  suggestive  of  the  adventur- 
ous. Every  turn  is  full  of  startling  possibilities,  and 
as  you  swing  around  them  you  cling  to  your  precarious 

170 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  171 

perch  over  the  wheel  with  a  realizing  sense  of  the  power 
of  centrifugal  force  such  as  you  never  have  had  before. 

It  was  a  vehicle  of  this  genus  which  I  mounted  one 
afternoon  at  Recess  for  a  ten-mile  drive  to  Cong  on 
the  shores  of  Lough  Corrib.  I  occupied  the  right- 
hand  seat  and  my  driver  the  one  opposite.  The 
country  along  the  route  was  bare  and  boggy,  upheav- 
ing into  frequent,  steep,  stony-topped  hills  that  some- 
times had  little  farms  on  their  lower  slopes.  We 
passed  many  geese,  pigs,  and  donkeys  feeding  by  the 
roadside,  and  the  driver  always  took  pains  to  give  the 
pigs  a  cut  with  his  whip  when  they  were  within  reach. 
Perhaps  he  had  a  touch  of  viciousness  in  his  nature, 
for,  in  addition  to  his  attention  to  the  pigs,  he  was  con- 
tinually belaboring  his  horse,  and  was  never  content 
unless  the  creature  was  humping  along  in  an  uncom- 
fortable canter. 

Once  we  passed  a  schoolhouse.  The  door  was  open, 
and  we  could  look  in  and  see  a  room  full  of  children. 
Outside  were  many  more  —  a  group  of  fifteen  or 
twenty  on  each  side  of  the  porch.  A  woman  teacher 
had  charge  of  the  group  on  the  right,  and  one  of  the 
older  boys,  acting  as  monitor,  had  charge  of  the  other. 
The  driver  said  that  in  the  case  of  most  schoolhouses 
the  reciting  was  all  done  indoors,  but  this  particular 
one  was  very  much  crowded  and  there  wasn't  room. 
Then  he  went  on  to  explain  that  he  did  not  approve 


172  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

of  the  new  methods  of  education  in  vogue.  About 
the  craziest  notion  of  all,  he  thought,  was  the  attempt 
to  teach  the  children  words  before  they  were  taught 
the  alphabet. 

"  It  did  used  to  be  the  way,"  said  he,  "  before  any- 
thing else,  to  learn  your  ah-b-c's  so  you  could  say  'em 
back'ards  and  for'ards  and  up  and  down  till  you  knew 
'em  thorough  —  and  that  was  the  right  way  too  !  Our 
ould  schoolmaster,  his  name  was  Connolly,  sir,  he 
taught  his  son  that's  now  the  captain  of  a  liner  sailin' 
to  the  foreign  ;  and  the  master,  nor  his  son  neither, 
niver  heard  of  no  such  nonsince  as  this  learnin'  readin', 
writin',  and  'rithmetic  before  the  ah-b-c's." 

Among  the  people  we  saw  on  the  road  was  an  old 
man  and  a  girl  of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  the  latter  carry- 
ing her  shoes  in  her  hand. 

"  Why  is  it,"  I  asked  the  driver,  "  that  most  of  the 
women  here  in  Connemara  go  barefoot,  while  most  of 
the  men  wear  shoes  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  except  that  the 
women  do  not  care  to  wear  shoes.  They  will  not  be 
bothered  with  them,  sir." 

During  the  latter  part  of  our  journey  we  kept  along 
the  borders  of  the  broad,  island-dotted  Lough  Corrib, 
which  afforded  a  pleasant  relief  to  the  eye  after  being 
so  long  among  the  omnipresent  bogs.  Cong,  too,  as 
we  approached  it,  looked  quite  attractive,  owing  to  the 


< 
O 

o 

g 

h 
< 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  173 

presence  of  an  unusual  number  of  trees  in  and  about 
it.  But  close  acquaintance  revealed  a  rusty,  decadent 
little  village.  It  was  formerly  much  more  prosperous 
and  populous,  and  was  the  centre  of  considerable  trade. 
In  these  modern  days,  however,  steam  connection  with 
the  outside  world  is  a  vital  business  necessity  and, 
lacking  this,  Cong's  condition  has  become  one  of 
settled  hopelessness.  The  old  women  beggars  lie  in 
wait  for  all  comers  at  the  street  corners,  ruined  build- 
ings are  frequent,  and  an  atmosphere  of  decay  and 
blight  pervades  the  whole  village.  Cows  loiter  in  the 
public  ways,  chickens  hang  about  the  home  thresholds 
and  walk  in  and  out  the  houses  at  pleasure,  and  the 
pigs  wander  freely  through  the  streets  nosing  into  the 
puddles  and  garbage.  At  times  these  four-legged 
scavengers  are  assaulted  by  roving  dogs,  and  then 
there  is  squealing  and  scampering ;  but  the  rout  is 
not  permanent,  and  the  pigs  are  soon  at  their  labors 
again. 

Cong's  chief  claim  to  interest  is  its  ancient  abbey, 
one  of  the  finest  ruins  in  Ireland.  The  building  dates 
back  to  the  sixth  century,  and  at  one  time  it  was  the 
home  of  seven  hundred  monks  and  was  the  island's 
chief  seat  of  learning.  Contemporary  with  Cong 
Abbey  there  were  in  Erin  various  other  monastic 
founts  of  knowledge,  and  at  a  time  when  England 
was  sunk  in   Druidic  barbarism,  or  engaged  in  wars 


i  y4  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

with  invading  Saxons,  Danes,  and  Normans,  Ireland 
was  well  advanced  in  civilization. 

Like  all  the  other  ancient  Irish  monasteries,  that  at 
Cong  owed  its  being  to  the  promulgation  of  Christian- 
ity in  Erin  by  St.  Patrick,  with  whom  the  authentic 
history  of  the  island  begins.  The  saint  was  not  Irish 
born,  and  he  made  his  first  acquaintance  with  the  island 
in  his  sixteenth  year  as  the  captive  of  a  band  of  pirates 
who  had  seized  him  on  his  father's  farm  in  France. 
They  sold  him  to  a  petty  chief,  in  whose  service  he 
remained  for  six  years.  When  he  at  length  succeeded 
in  escaping,  he  made  his  way  back  to  France,  where  he 
became  a  monk  and  rose  high  in  the  Christian  church. 
In  the  year  432  he  returned  to  Ireland  as  a  missionary 
appointed  by  the  Pope,  and  wherever  he  went  convic- 
tion and  conversion  followed.  By  degrees  he  visited 
all  parts  of  the  island,  and  king  after  king  and  chieftain 
after  chieftain  became  the  servants  of  Christ.  St.  Pat- 
rick had  found  Ireland  pagan,  but  when  he  died  the 
power  of  the  old  gods  was  gone  forever. 

After  he  had  been  laid  to  rest  his  disciples  carried 
the  cross  of  Christ  to  Scotland  and  England,  to  the 
Continent,  and  to  the  wild  islands  of  the  northern  seas. 
Numerous  monasteries  sprang  up,  and  Erin  became 
famous  as  the  island  of  saints,  and  was  the  resort  of 
many  students  of  distinction  from  various  parts  of 
Europe.     Indeed,  it  is  now  conceded  that  the  Anglo- 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  175 

Saxons  were  indebted  to  the  Irish  mainly  for  Chris- 
tianity and  entirely  for  letters. 

The  ruin  of  Cong  Abbey  is  well  cared  for,  and  a 
bushy-bearded,  gray  old  gardener  is  always  on  hand, 
ready  to  act  as  guide  for  such  visitors  as  stray  into  the 
domain.  There  are  fine  grounds  with  gravel  paths 
overarched  by  gnarled  trees,  and  sweeps  of  lawn 
through  which  a  little  river  winds,  sliding  over  its 
pebbly  bed  in  crystal  clearness.  At  one  place  the 
current  of  the  stream  is  divided  by  a  small  island,  on 
which  are  the  remains  of  a  tiny  fishhouse  that  in 
architecture  suggests  a  miniature  church.  From  this 
building  the  old  monks  used  to  let  down  a  net  into 
the  stream,  and  it  was  so  arranged  that  when  the  net 
filled  with  fish,  a  bell  rang  and  the  monks  went  and 
drew  in  their  catch.  Tradition  relates  that  it  was  their 
success  in  fishing  which  led  to  their  downfall.  The 
ruler  of  the  district  became  envious  of  their  good  eat- 
ing, and  banished  the  whole  fraternity  and  appropriated 
their  fishing  arrangements  to  himself. 

Within  the  main  part  of  the  ruined  abbey  is  a  ceme- 
tery full  of  great  stone  slabs  laid  flat  over  the  graves 
of  the  village  dead.  The  space  is  cramped,  and  there 
is  hardly  a  foot  of  it  unoccupied.  Each  family,  the 
old  gardener  said,  owned  just  the  width  of  one  grave, 
and  when  a  body  is  to  be  buried  this  grave  is  reopened. 
In  making  room  for  a  fresh  interment  a  good  many 


176  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

bones  are  unearthed,  and  sometimes  three  or  four  cof- 
fins still  undecayed.  It  has  always  been  customary  to 
return  the  coffins  to  the  grave,  one  above  the  other,  in 
company  with  the  most  recent  addition  to  their  num- 
ber ;  but  the  bones,  until  a  few  years  ago,  were  simply 
thrown  out  and  left  scattered  about  the  cemetery. 

The  grewsome  spectacle  presented  by  Cong  in  former 
days  was  not  exceptional,  for  it  was  once  the  general 
habit  throughout  Ireland  to  inter  the  dead  carelessly 
within  two  or  three  feet,  or  even  less,  of  the  surface; 
and  when  room  had  to  be  made  in  a  grave  for  a  new 
inmate,  the  earlier  occupants  were  treated  with  scant 
ceremony.  All  the  old  churchyards  were  littered  with 
decayed  coffin  planks  and  bones,  with  no  regard  what- 
ever for  decency.  The  sight  of  these  human  relics 
proved  offensive  to  modern  fastidiousness,  and  the 
lord  of  Cong  Manor  now  compels  the  sexton  to  put 
the  bones  his  pick  and  shovel  brings  to  the  surface 
back  underground,  while  those  that  once  strewed  the 
place  have  been  gathered  up  and  are  heaped  in  a  mossy 
alcove  of  the  ruin.  If  you  choose,  you  can  look  in  on 
them  lying  there  in  their  dim  cell  —  hundreds  of 
skulls  on  one  side,  and  thousands  of  lesser  bones  on 
the  other  side. 

My  attention  was  attracted,  the  second  morning  of 
my  stay  in  Cong,  to  a  little  open  square,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  main  street,  where  were  erected  some  primitive 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  177 

scales,  consisting  of  a  balance  swung  from  a  tripod  of 
poles.  This  open  square  was  the  town  market-place, 
and  here  began  to  gather,  about  nine  o'clock,  those 
who  wished  to  buy  or  sell.  They  made  a  motley 
group,  few  in  numbers,  and  with  only  the  most  meagre 
supplies  of  produce.  I  was  particularly  interested  in 
the  country  people  bringing  in  bags  of  potatoes  on 
their  little  donkeys.  Some  of  the  men  made  very 
quaint  figures.  They  wore  knee-breeches,  heavy 
shoes,  and  bobtailed  coats,  and  they  all  carried  short 
canes,  shillalahs  I  suppose,  and  one  or  two  had  on 
antique  stovepipe  hats.  They  were  like  characters 
from  the  comic  papers  come  to  life. 

Beyond  the  market-place,  the  village  soon  gave  way 
to  an  upland  country,  that  looked  like  the  wreck  of 
worlds.  All  the  broad  hilltops  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see  were  covered  with  plains  of  limestone  rock  —  gray, 
waterworn,  and  crisscrossed  by  multitudinous  cracks, 
as  if,  after  being  subjected  to  great  heat,  the  rock  had 
suddenly  cooled  and  shrivelled. 

One  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  stone  is,  that  it  is 
sufficiently  porous  to  allow  water  to  filter  through  it 
readily,  a  fact  demonstrated  by  a  canal  excavated 
at  immense  cost,  to  connect  Lough  Corrib  with  an- 
other large  lough  a  few  miles  to  the  north.  The 
enterprise  was  only  abandoned  at  the  last  moment, 
when  the  water  was  turned  on  and  surprised  the  pro- 

N 


178  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

moters  by  all  disappearing  as  if  the  bottom  of  the 
canal  had  been  a  sieve.  Nothing  was  left  to  show  for 
money  and  labor,  and  for  the  prosperity  the  canal  was 
to  bring  to  Cong  and  the  country  round  about,  save 
this  useless  dry  channel  in  the  gray  rock. 

Where  the  limestone  begins  to  give  place  to  earth, 
on  the  borders  of  the  village,  there  are  patches  of  fir 
woods.  In  one  of  these,  on  a  level  outcropping  of 
rock  near  the  road,  I  glimpsed  through  the  evergreen 
boughs  a  cluster  of  curious  cairns  of  stones,  some  of 
which  had  slight  wooden  crosses  stuck  in  their  tops. 
On  inquiring,  I  learned  that  these  stone  heaps  marked 
a  spot  where,  long  ago,  the  monks,  at  the  time  they 
were  expelled,  had  stopped  on  their  melancholy  pil- 
grimage and  erected  a  cross.  Ever  since,  when  a 
corpse  is  brought  along  this  road  on  the  way  to  the 
burial-place,  it  is  set  down  here,  and  the  priest  offers  a 
prayer  for  the  soul  of  the  dead ;  and  the  cairns  in  the 
wood  are  memorial  piles,  heaped  up  from  time  to  time 
by  those  who  have  lost  friends. 

One  doubtful  morning,  encouraged  by  a  few  patches 
of  blue  that  showed  fitfully  in  the  misty  sky,  I  hired  a 
jaunting-car  and  started  for  Letterfrack,  twenty  miles 
away.  My  driver  was  a  stout,  red-faced  old  man,  who, 
in  deference  to  the  threatening  aspect  of  the  day,  wore 
a  greatcoat,  and  had  a  heavy  red  murHer  wound  around 
his  neck  and  across  his  chin.     He  carried  a  stub  of 


OS 

< 

-J 

o 
o 

X 

u 

CO 

w 
h 


< 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  179 

a  whip  with  a  long  lash,  and  every  now  and  then 
encouraged  his  horse  by  a  cut  underneath.  But  he 
was  kindly  disposed  toward  the  beast  on  the  whole, 
and  when  the  road  was  at  all  steep  he  got  off  and 
walked.  We  visited  as  we  jogged  along,  and,  among 
other  things,  we  talked  about  the  fairies. 

"  They  do  be  all  dead  now,  sir,"  solemnly  affirmed 
my  companion.  "  We  did  used  to  have  them  in  the 
ould  times,  sir,  but  they  be  all  dead,  long  ago.  I've 
niver  seen  a  fairy  mysilf,  sir,  and  in  the  last  thirty 
years  I've  been  out  as  late  at  night  as  any  one,  many's 
the  time,  driving  about.  Some  may  fancy  they  sees 
something  in  the  dark,  but  it's  not  fairies.  They  do 
be  all  dead  now,  sir,  though  I  thought  different,  sir, 
whin  I  was  a  slip  of  a  lad ;  for,  clost  to  where  I  lived 
then,  there  was  a  rath  —  that's  a  fort,  you  know,  sir, 
big  banks  of  earth  around  the  top  of  a  hill,  that  some 
says  the  sojers  used  to  fight  from.  But  it  was  always 
telled  me  whin  I  was  a  lad  that  the  rath  was  a  fairies' 
fort,  and  we  niver  dared  to  touch  it  with  a  spade,  or  cut 
down  a  tree  growin'  on  it,  or  carry  away  a  stone ;  and 
they  said  if  you  put  your  ear  to  the  ground  at  night 
you  would  hear  the  fairy  music  risin'  up  from  under 
the  earth,  but  I  was  too  scared  to  go  there  after  dark, 
and  I  niver  could  hear  anything  of  it  in  the  daytime. 
Ah,  well,  sir,  that  was  all  just  my  boy  notions.  The 
fairies  do  be  all  dead,  sir." 


180  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

"  But  there  are  queer  things  happen  even  if  the 
fairies  are  all  dead,"  I  ventured  to  suggest. 

"  Indeed  there  are,  sir.  Did  you  iver  hear  of  Tom 
Taylor,  sir  ?  Well,  sir,  the  man  that's  done  the  most 
good  in  Connemara  and  left  the  most  money  here  was 
the  gintleman  I  mintioned  —  cTom'  Taylor,  we  called 
him.  He  was  a  gr-reat  man.  He  would  come  to 
Mulaky's  hotel  and  stop  eight  weeks  and  spind  X400 
there.  He  would  give  ^15  apiece  to  his  boatmen, 
and  ivery  one  that  had  anything  to  do  with  Tom  Tay- 
lor did  get  big  money. 

"  Whin  he  wint  out  for  a  day's  fishin'  he  would  take 
along  a  dozen  of  porther  and  a  dozen  of  ale  and  a  quart 
of  whiskey  and  two  or  three  bottles  of  champagne. 
Oh,  he  was  a  har-rd  dr-rinker,  sir,  he  was  that !  On 
Sunday  he  would  be  havin'  all  sorts  of  races  and  lip- 
pin',  and  he  payin'  the  best  man.  He  was  kind  to  the 
poor  women,  too,  and  always  buying  this  Irish  tweed 
cloth  stuff  from  them  and  payin'  them  five  shillin'  a 
yard  for't,  though  it  was  nothing  he  wanted  in  the 
worrld  ;  and  he  would  give  it  to  his  boatmen,  and  very 
like  the  boatmen  would  give  it  back  to  the  women 
Tom  bought  it  of,  and  they'd  have  it  to  sell  to  him 
again,  or  some  other  man. 

"  Well,  sir,  he  had  a  house  up  here  by  Lough  Inagh, 
and  an  ould  man  and  his  wife  stayed  there  to  take  care 
o'  the  place ;  and,  comin'  on  winter,  one  time,  Tom 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  181 

went  away  and  said  he  would  be  back  such  and  such  a 
day  and  month.  But  just  after  he  left  he  died.  Well, 
sir,  that  time  he  said  he  would  be  back  come,  and  the 
ould  man  and  his  wife  that  was  stayin'  in  the  house 
was  sleepin'  in  their  bed  that  night  whin  they  heard  a 
bell  dingle  dangle  in  the  hall.  It  was  about  the  middle 
o'  the  night,  and  the  bell  kept  on  and  kept  on  and 
kept  on,  dingle,  dangle,  dingle,  dangle,  all  the  time 
till  the  ould  man  said  he  would  go  and  see  what  that 
ringin'  was  if  he  died  for't, 

"  So  he  wint  out  in  the  hall,  and  there  was  a  row  of 
bells  there  that  wint  to  the  different  rooms  upstairs, 
and,  sir,  the  bell  that  was  goin'  it  back'ards  and  for- 
'ards  was  the  one  that  wint  to  the  room  what  Tom 
Taylor  always  slep'  in.  The  bell  kep'  a  ringing  and 
the  ould  man  wint  on  upstairs  and  opened  Tom  Tay- 
lor's door,  and,  sir,  he  said  afterward  he  wished  he'd 
stayed  ablow  stairs.  For  there  was  Tom's  pipe  layin' 
on  the  table  with  the  heel  of  it  toward  him  and  the 
room  was  full  of  the  smell  of  that  pipe  smoke,  and, 
sir,  it  had  exactly  the  same  smell  that  Tom  Taylor's 
tobacco  smoke  had  when  he  was  alive ;  and  that's  all  I 
know  about  it,  sir." 

The  road  to  Letterfrack  for  nearly  the  whole  dis- 
tance pursued  a  winding  course  through  the  dull, 
interminable  solitude  of  the  bogland.  The  waste  was 
unfenced  and  treeless,  and  only  broken  by  the  great 


1 82  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

gray  mountains  that  thrust  up  through  the  water- 
soaked  peat  and  lifted  their  rocky  summits  into  the 
misty  clouds.  Often  we  skirted  along  a  lough  with 
its  surface  frayed  into  white  caps  and  streaked  with 
foam.  On  one  of  these  loughs  a  melancholy  sports- 
man's fishing-boat  was  beating  back  and  forth  through 
the  frothy  waters.  It  was  astonishing,  the  amount  of 
dreary  hardship  the  gentry  fishermen  would  bear  on 
the  chance  of  getting  a  few  trout  and  salmon.  Yet  the 
worse  the  weather  the  better  they  liked  it,  and  there 
had  been  a  good  deal  of  growling  this  year  since  the 
fishing  season  began  because  days  of  clouds  and  chilling 
downpour  had  been  too  infrequent. 

"  We  wants  it  saft,  sir,"  my  driver  explained, 
"  south  winds  and  rain.  But  it  has  been  very  dry,  sir, 
and  the  wind  blowin'  from  the  north  all  the  time  this 
three  weeks." 

Sometimes  we  had  a  little  cluster  of  huts  in  sight  on 
a  far  hillside  with  a  checkering  of  green  and  yellow 
fields  about  them.  Once  we  passed  a  cart  by  the  road- 
side. The  horse  had  been  detached  and  was  baiting 
near  by  while  two  men  were  at  work  a  half  mile  distant 
in  the  bog.  My  driver  said  they  were  either  cutting 
sedge  for  thatch,  or  were  gathering  young  heather  for 
stable  bedding.  Another  characteristic  bit  of  bogland 
life  was  a  woman,  barefoot  and  bareheaded,  after  the 
usual  custom  of  the  region,  walking  briskly  along  the 


w 
X 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  183 

road  knitting.  She  carried  her  ball  of  yarn  under  her 
arm,  and  as  often  as  she  used  up  the  slack  she  unwound 
a  few  feet,  tucked  the  ball  back,  and  set  her  needles 
flying  again. 

When  we  neared  the  end  of  our  journey  the  country 
became  pleasanter,  the  land  was  more  fertile,  there 
were  patches  of  wood,  and  across  a  lake  a  handsome 
castle  came  into  view. 

"  A  foine  castle,  that,"  remarked  my  driver,  pointing 
to  it  with  his  whip,  "  but  what  will  be  becomin'  of  it 
after  the  lord  that  lives  there  dies  ?  He  won't  want 
to  be  leavin'  it,  and  he  can't  take  it  with  him,  sir.  I'm 
thinkin'  his  mind  won't  be  aisy  whin  he  comes  to 
dyin'.  He  won't  be  thinkin'  of  how  he  dies,  but  he'll 
be  thinkin'  of  his  foine  castle." 

Now  the  roadsides  were  lined  with  hedges  of  haw- 
thorn, furze,  and  alder  —  and,  more  than  that,  there 
were  gorgeous  hedges  of  fuchsias,  which  grew  broad 
and  thick  and  five  or  six  feet  high,  and  were  all  blinking 
full  of  pendent  blossoms.  A  sprinkling  of  fuchsias 
was  to  be  found  even  in  the  other  hedges,  as  if  they 
were  so  hardy  and  weedlike  they  would  crowd  in 
anywhere.  I  was  the  more  surprised,  because  one 
naturally  thinks  of  them  as  a  tender  hothouse  plant. 
They  do,  in  fact,  shrink  from  the  cold,  and  their  pres- 
ence in  the  west  of  Ireland  is  due  to  the  Gulf  Stream, 
which  washes  the  coast,  and  so  tempers  the  climate 


184  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

that  the  winters  are  very  mild.  Yet  the  impression 
was  as  if  this  was  some  work  of  the  fairies  whom  my 
driver  had  affirmed  were  all  dead. 

Letterfrack  was  a  sleepy  little  village  whose  chief 
claims  to  attention  were  a  genuinely  comfortable  hotel 
—  a  rarity  in  Ireland  —  and  a  stony  mountain  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  hamlet  that  the  guide-books  recom- 
mended for  climbing  purposes.  I  let  others  climb 
who  had  a  liking  for  that  sort  of  thing,  while  I  spent 
the  remnant  of  the  day  that  remained  after  my  long 
ride  in  looking  about  the  village.  The  only  two  per- 
sons I  saw  who  seemed  to  have  any  special  occupation 
were  an  old  beggar  on  crutches,  posted  near  the  hotel 
door  to  beseech  alms,  and  a  boy  with  a  donkey,  bring- 
ing peat  to  the  hamlet  from  a  roadside  pile  a  short 
distance  out  on  the  bog.  Across  the  middle  of  the 
beast  that  the  boy  drove  were  hung  two  big  wicker 
panniers,  and  the  lad  as  he  went  to  and  fro  was  perched 
on  a  side-saddle  behind.  I  watched  him  once  arrive 
at  the  peat  stack,  slip  off  from  the  donkey,  and  back 
the  creature  up  to  the  heap.  He  had  just  begun  to 
fill  the  panniers  with  the  brown  blocks  when  a  dog 
broke  forth  into  turbulent  barking  on  a  near  hill.  I 
looked  up,  and  there  was  a  rabbit  leaping  along  like  a 
streak  through  the  grass  tufts,  and  the  dog  after  it. 
On  they  came  down  the  hill,  and  the  donkey  boy 
caught  up  a  stone  and  ran  yelling  toward  them.     He 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  185 

threw  the  stone,  but  he  might  as  well  have  tried  to 
hit  a  shadow.  The  rabbit  was  across  the  road  in  an 
instant  and  off  into  the  bog.  Further  pursuit  was 
hopeless,  and  the  boy  and  dog  gave  up  the  chase  and 
stood  looking  regretfully  out  on  the  vacant  moorland. 

I  went  on  the  next  morning  to  Leenane  by  "  long 
car  "  —  a  vehicle  very  much  like  a  shaky  omnibus, 
only  the  seats  are  turned  outward  so  that  the  pas- 
sengers dangle  their  heels  over  the  wheels  the  same  as 
on  a  jaunting-car.  This  particular  long  car  was  intended 
to  carry  eleven  people  besides  the  driver,  but  I  imag- 
ine it  could  be  made  to  convey  almost  any  number  by 
packing  them  into  the  chinks  and  corners.  There  were 
thirteen  this  trip.  One  climbed  up  beside  the  driver, 
the  long  seats  on  the  sides  held  five  each,  and  two 
extras  roosted  in  the  middle  on  the  piles  of  baggage. 

It  was  a  heavy  load  for  a  single  pair  of  horses,  and 
we  all  got  off  and  walked  up  the  hills.  That  gave  us 
a  chance  to  exercise  and  ward  off  the  cramps,  and  some 
of  us  gathered  blackberries  along  the  way,  or  picked 
flowers.  Most  of  the  journey  was  across  the  dark, 
lonely  bogland,  with  misty-topped  mountains  glower- 
ing about  on  the  horizon. 

Leenane,  which  we  reached  toward  noon,  is  a  small 
village  just  back  from  the  shore  of  an  arm  of  the  sea 
that  reaches  far  inland  among  the  bare  mountains. 
As  soon  as  I   finished  lunching,  I  started  for  a  walk. 


1 86  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

The  road  parted  not  far  from  my  hotel,  and,  while 
I  paused  to  consider  which  way  I  would  take,  my 
attention  was  caught  by  a  peculiar  old  man  standing  in 
the  doorway  of  a  little  shop  close  by.  He  was  pom- 
pous in  manner,  quick  and  sharp  in  speech,  and  was 
always  frowning  and  scowling  with  his  gray  eyebrows. 
A  lanky  lad  was  passing,  and  the  man  called  at  him 
crustily,  "  Come  here,  come  here,  I  say  !  " 

The  lad  stopped  reluctantly  and  drew  near. 

"  Do  you  believe  there's  a  God  in  heaven  ? ,!'  in- 
quired the  man. 

"  I  do,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Then  why  do  you  go  around  with  your  mouth 
hanging  open,  telling  lies  ?  "  the  man  asked.  "  You 
promised  me  a  load  of  lobsters  yesterday  by  twelve 
o'clock,  and  you  did  not  fetch  them.  I  lost  near  five 
guineas  by  ye.  What  is  your  word  good  for,  I'd  like 
to  know  ! " 

This  interview  was  hardly  done  and  the  lad  gone, 
when  another  youth  came  along,  and  the  old  man 
stepped  out  to  the  borders  of  the  highway  and  asked 
him  how  his  father  was. 

"  About  the  same,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Does  he  sit  up  ?  " 

"  No,  he  don't  sit  up." 

"Then  he  must  be  worse.  Oh,  he's  not  getting 
along  at  all  !  " 


o 

O 

U 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  187 

The  man  was  going  to  have  the  exact  truth,  no 
foolish  building  on  false  hopes  for  him,  and  he  was 
still  ferreting  out  the  facts  and  laying  them  before  the 
too  optimistic  young  man  when  I  went  on.  I  kept  to 
the  main  road,  and  at  the  end  of  about  a  mile  came  to 
a  village  lying  in  a  basin-like  hollow,  scooped  out 
among  the  mountains.  All  over  the  lower  levels  of 
this  basin  were  scattered  peasant  cottages.  There  was 
never  any  regularity  in  their  placing.  They  were 
dotted  around  just  as  it  happened.  Among  them 
were  numerous  tiny  patches  of  potatoes,  oats,  cabbages, 
and  turnips,  and  on  the  upper  hillsides  cows  and  sheep 
were  feeding.  Nearly  all  the  little  stone-walled  plots 
were  fringed  about  with  briers  and  thorn  bushes,  and 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  cottages  grew  a  few  stunted 
trees  —  not  fruit  trees,  but  birches,  alders,  and  the  like, 
that  sprouted  up  from  the  crevices  of  a  garden  wall, 
or  that  rudely  hedged  a  bit  of  a  yard.  They  no  doubt 
served  to  some  extent  to  shut  off  the  wind,  and  they 
furnished  a  stick  now  and  then  when  a  roof  needed 
mending,  and  an  occasional  handle  for  a  farm  tool. 

Many  of  the  little  grass  fields  had  been  mown,  and 
the  hay  was  in  process  of  curing.  The  drying  was 
hastened  by  raking  the  hay  to  the  field  corner  that 
was  least  wet,  and  then  winding  it  all  up  by  hand  in 
rolls  about  as  large  as  a  good-sized  muff.  The  form 
of  the  rolls  was  such  that  they  shed  the  rain,  and  the 


1 88  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

hole  in  the  middle  let  the  air  circulate,  and  helped  the 
curing  at  such  times  as  no  rain  was  falling.  In  a  cli- 
mate so  showery  ordinary  methods  of  haymaking 
would  be  ineffective. 

Through  the  hollow  of  the  glen  coursed  a  small 
stream,  and  on  one  side  of  it  was  a  rough  road,  but  on 
the  other  only  a  muddy  path  which  went  up  the  hill 
and  down  the  hill,  across  brooks  and  over  hummocks, 
linking  the  various  cottages  together,  and  continually 
coming  to  an  end  in  dooryards,  and  going  on  again 
from  around  the  corner  of  a  stable.  The  average  door- 
yard  was  very  miry,  and  had  a  great  number  of  slimy 
cobblestones  strewn  about  it,  which,  I  believe,  were 
intended  to  prevent  a  person  from  sinking  in  out  of  sight 
when  the  wet  winter  weather  made  all  the  soil  a  black 
morass.  Still,  the  yards  served  very  well  as  a  loitering- 
place  for  the  geese  and  hens  and  pigs,  who  used  them 
rather  more  than  the  cottagers,  if  anything.  The  pigs 
were  the  most  conspicuous  of  the  farmyard  creatures, 
and  they  were  by  no  means  confined  to  the  home 
premises,  but  wandered  around  much  as  they  pleased. 
They  had  the  air  of  owning  the  country,  and  they  did 
not  run  away  when  you  approached.  On  the  con- 
trary, they  were  more  likely  to  come  and  root  up  your 
trousers  leg  by  way  of  friendly  investigation.  Not 
infrequently  the  cows,  pigs,  and  other  creatures  occu- 
pied the  same  building  with  their  owners,  and  in  that 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  189 

case  the  dank  manure  heap  outside  sometimes  had  the 
appearance  of  having  been  thrown  out  of  the  parlor 
window. 

In  my  tour  of  the  village  I  was  watched  by  the 
inhabitants  from  fields  and  house-doors  and  the  road, 
as  if  no  stranger  had  ever  visited  the  place  before. 
Once  a  shock-headed  man  came  out  from  a  hovel  and 
invited  me  in  to  see  him  weaving  on  an  old  hand 
loom.  The  children  of  the  neighborhood  followed  me 
into  the  hut,  and  with  them  came  a  dreadful-looking 
foolish  man  who  persisted  in  keeping  close  to  me. 

The  weaver  kicked  off  his  slippers  and  sat  down 
behind  the  loom,  and  got  his  machine  into  clattering 
motion.  In  the  gray  gloom  of  the  ill-lighted  apart- 
ment, I  could  barely  see  the  warp  lifting  and  falling 
and  the  shuttles  flying  back  and  forth.  The  process 
was  picturesque,  but  it  was  no  pleasure  watching  it  in 
that  low,  foul,  dirt-floored  dwelling,  with  the  wild-look- 
ing idiot  man  and  the  staring  crowd  of  children  so  close 
about.  As  far  as  the  house  was  concerned,  it  was  very 
like  the  others  of  the  village.  They  were  all  low  and 
small,  with  sedge-thatched  roofs.  Some  had  white- 
washed walls,  which  added  to  their  outer  cheerfulness, 
but  inside  was  the  same  earth  floor,  with  its  inevitable 
spatterings  and  litter,  and  meagre,  untidy  poverty. 

In  one  of  the  homes  I  found  a  woman  spinning 
wool  on  a  great  wheel,  and  a  little  pig  was  at  her  feet 


190  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

with  its  head  in  the  family  porridge-pot.  But  when  I 
appeared  the  pig  went  and  sat  down  on  the  floor  beside 
the  baby,  who,  unless  looks  belied  appearances,  was  as 
much  of  a  rooter  as  the  creature  at  his  side.  A  few 
blocks  of "  turf"  were  smouldering  in  the  rude  fire- 
place, and,  as  is  usual  in  these  dwellings,  much  of  the 
smoke  found  its  way  out  into  the  room,  and  made  a 
more  or  less  tardy  egress  by  the  door,  which  is  always 
open  when  any  of  the  family  are  at  home.  A  score  or 
so  of  neighbors  gathered  to  watch  me,  and,  much  to 
their  entertainment,  I  tried  spinning,  and  succeeded  in 
producing  a  few  feet  of  rough,  uneven  yarn. 

When  I  was  preparing  to  leave,  a  half-blind  old 
woman  among  those  looking  on  remarked,  "  I  hope 
your  honor  is  going  to  give  us  something  for  your 
spinning  —  not  that  we'd  be  asking  for't,  but  because 
you'd  be  wantin*  to." 

Naturally  a  request  so  diplomatically  put  had  its 
reward. 

I  went  on  from  Leenane  the  day  following  by  jaunt- 
ing-car northward  to  Westport.  The  weather  was  as 
uncertain  as  usual  —  gray  mists  about  the  mountains, 
now  dropping  low,  now  lifting,  occasional  glints  of 
sunshine,  and,  hardly  less  frequent,  sweeps  of  showers 
veiling  the  landscape  and  leaving  an  aftermath  of 
thin  shreds  of  rainbow  wandering  about  the  lonely 
moors. 


Q 
< 

z 

o 

(- 

CO 


Jaunting-car  Journeys  191 

Often,  when  we  passed  near  houses,  the  bareheaded 
children  would  hasten  to  the  roadside  and  then  run 
beside  the  car,  silently  panting,  for  a  long  distance. 
They  said  nothing,  but  were  constantly  looking  up 
to  me  in  the  hope  I  would  throw  them  pennies. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  journey  there  were  numerous 
dark  peat  cuttings  in  the  bog,  and  over  many  acres 
were  scattered  cairns  of  dry  peat  blocks,  which  in  places 
gathered  so  thickly  they  were  quite  suggestive  of  pri- 
meval villages. 

Presently  the  marshlands  came  to  a  sudden  end  on 
the  edge  of  a  steep  declivity  down  which  our  road 
crept  to  Westport.  There  lay  the  village  far  below, 
reposing  amid  a  greenery  of  trees,  and  there  lay  out- 
spread the  beautiful  Clew  Bay,  with  its  multitude  of 
islands,  while  off  to  the  left,  on  the  mainland,  rose  the 
lofty  cone  of  Croagh  Patrick,  looking  forth  from  the 
dissolving  clouds.  This  mountain  is  regarded  as  sacred 
to  Erin's  patron  saint,  who  is  believed  to  have  begun 
here  his  mission  in  Ireland,  and  who  was  accustomed, 
when  he  was  sojourning  in  Connaught,  to  retire  to  it  at 
Lent  for  fasting  and  prayer.  From  its  top  he  is  said  to 
have  blessed  Connemara,  which  he  declined  to  enter 
because  it  looked  so  bleak  and  barren.  There  is  also 
a  tradition  that  he  collected  on  Croagh  Patrick  all 
the  serpents  in  Ireland  and  drove  them  thence  into 
the  sea ;  and  a  certain  hollow  is  pointed  out  as  a  place 


192  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

in  which  the  serpents  endeavored  in  vain  to  take  refuge 
as  they  descended. 

Another  interesting  feature  of  the  mountain  is  a 
holy  well,  the  origin  of  which  is  of  course  ascribed 
to  the  great  saint.  One  day,  warm  and  thirsty  with 
climbing,  he  wished  for  a  drink,  and  instantly  from 
the  ground  at  his  feet  there  gushed  out  a  cool  spring. 
It  disappeared  after  he  had  drunk  ;  but  many  centuries 
later  a  good  priest,  poking  about  the  neighborhood, 
took  notice  of  a  flat  stone  with  a  cross  on  it  lying  by 
the  pathside.  He  raised  the  stone  and  a  clear  stream 
poured  forth.  An  excavation,  rudely  walled  about, 
has  since  been  made  for  the  spring,  and  in  this  now 
dwell  two  sacred  trout  who  add  much  to  the  well's 
celebrity.  The  proof  of  their  sacredness  is  attested  by 
the  fact  that  some  years  ago  an  heretical  soldier,  having 
caught  one  of  the  trout  and  taken  it  home  with  the 
intention  of  eating  it,  had  no  sooner  placed  it  on  the 
gridiron  than  it  disappeared  from  before  his  eyes ;  and 
the  next  day  it  was  found  in  the  waters  of  the  well  as 
usual,  only  its  side  bore  the  mark  of  the  hot  bars  of 
the  gridiron. 

On  account  of  the  mountain's  connection  with  St. 
Patrick,  it  is  celebrated  as  a  place  of  religious  pilgrim- 
age, and  at  certain  seasons  it  is  ascended  by  devotees 
from  near  and  far.  For  my  part,  the  saintly  associa- 
tions of  the  mountain  were  not  sufficient  incentive  in 


Jaunting-car  Journeys 


l93 


themselves  to  induce  me  to  make  the  climb,  and  the 
weather  was  too  doubtful  to  assure  the  view  which  the 
summit  affords,  and  which,  if  report  is  true,  would  have 
well  repaid  the  labor. 


X 


AN    ISLAND    ON    THE    WILD    WEST    COAST 


•  *'*-:'.:■.•'*-.}■■■■,.*:■■■:■■.■■:■■;:■■. 


^HE  isle  of 
Achill  barely 
misses  being  a 


part  of  the  mainland, 
so  narrow  is  the  separat- 
ing channel.  A  bridge 
affords  connection,  and 
access  is  easy.  It  is 
reputed  to  contain  the 
most  striking  scenery 
to  be  found  on  the 
wild  west  coast ;  but  I 
got  small  hint  of  any- 
thing romantic  on  the 
twelve-mile  ride  across 
it  to  the  island's  single 
hotel  at  Doogort.  The  landscape,  now  dipping  into 
wide  valleys  and  now  heaving  into  broad,  rounded 
hills,  or  at  times  rising  into  steep  mountains  with 
rocky,   pinnacled   tops,  was   desolate  in  the  extreme, 

194 


An  Island  on  the  Wild  West  Coast         195 

and  the  little  reclaimed  patches,  with  their  accompany- 
ing cabins,  were  few  and  far  between.  Indeed,  the 
island  was  one  almost  interminable  bog,  and  its  peat 
deposits,  which  often  attain  the  remarkable  depth  of 
twenty  feet,  are  extensive  enough  to  supply  all  Ireland. 

Doogort  proved  to  be  a  little  settlement  of  white- 
washed houses  on  a  hill  slope,  with  a  big  mountain 
behind,  and,  close  below,  a  small  bay  that  the  sea  had 
scooped  out  of  the  land,  and  rimmed  with  a  long 
curve  of  sandy  beach.  The  other  villages  on  Achill 
were  even  less  imposing  than  Doogort.  Nearly  all  of 
them  were  small  fishing  hamlets,  each  made  up  of  a 
huddle  of  low  stone  houses  with  roofs  of  thatch  or  turf, 
on  which  there  were  apt  to  be  sproutings  of  sorrel  and 
grasses.  I  passed  several  such  places  on  a  jaunting- 
car  trip  I  made  the  second  day  I  was  on  the  island, 
and  in  every  one  had  a  tagging  of  boys  running  after 
the  car  with  "  diamonds ,]  for  sale.  Investigation 
showed  that  these  diamonds  were  simply  broken  ame- 
thyst crystals,  and  the  inducement  to  purchase  did  not 
seem  very  great. 

However,  I  made  one  diamond  boy  happy  at  a 
certain  village,  where  I  left  the  jaunting-car  behind, 
by  taking  him  along  with  me  as  guide  on  a  visit  I  paid 
to  a  rocky  promontory,  reaching  in  a  thin  wedge  far 
out  into  the  Atlantic.  The  boy  was,  of  course,  bare- 
foot, and  said  he  went  so  most  of  the  year,  and  that 


196  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

many  of  the  Achill  people  never  wore  shoes,  either 
winter  or  summer.  He  didn't  when  he  was  little. 
But  now,  for  wear  in  cold  weather,  he  had  a  new  pair 
once  in  three  years. 

We  clambered  along  a  rough  path  cut  in  the  side  of  a 
slope,  that  descended  in  steep  turf  and  rocky  leaps 
from  the  heights  far  above,  to  the  sea  far  below,  and 
at  length  we  came  to  a  big  stone  by  the  pathside  which 
the  boy  pointed  out  as  having  been  a  favorite  seat  of 
the  famous  Captain  Boycott.  It  seemed  that  this 
notable  spent  his  last  days  on  Achill,  near  that  part 
of  the  island  where  we  then  were,  but  it  was  on  the 
mainland  that  he  won  his  reputation  and  gave  the 
language  a  new  word.  He  was  agent  on  an  estate, 
and  the  tenantry  took  offence  at  what  was  regarded  as 
his  severity,  and  tried  to  prevent  any  one's  dealing  with 
him.  The  laborers  refused  to  help  in  the  harvesting 
and  the  household  servants  left,  and  the  family  had  to 
do  their  own  work  as  best  they  could.  No  one  dared 
to  sell  them  provisions,  and  there  was  danger  that  the 
agent  would  be  starved  and  ruined,  if  he  was  not 
killed  by  the  riotous  peasantry.  Matters  finally  be- 
came so  serious  that  a  large  body  of  soldiers  was  sent 
to  protect  him.  Besides  intimidating  the  boycotters, 
the  soldiers  assisted  in  the  forsaken  fields,  and,  as  they 
had  to  have  food,  the  captain  sold  them,  at  a  good 
profit,  the  produce  they  helped  to  harvest.    Thus  the 


w 

EU 

O 
en 

■J 
-J 

I 
u 

< 

< 

O 

H 

< 
O 

o 


An  Island  on  the  Wild  West  Coast         197 

first  boycott  not  only  failed,  but  the  man  against  whom 
it  was  aimed  made  money  on  it. 

The  day's  weather  was  a  curious  medley  of  dull 
clouds  and  of  bright  sunshine.  For  a  while  the  sky 
would  be  gentle  and  soft  and  summery  to  perfection ; 
then  it  would  turn  frowning  and  dark,  the  mountains 
would  be  shrouded,  the  gloomy  shadows  gather  over 
the  bogs,  and  presently  the  cold  rain  would  come 
sweeping  down  from  the  high  slopes  and  go  driving  in 
gray  mists  across  the  sea.  I  encountered  one  of  these 
showers  while  I  was  still  on  the  path,  and  hastened  to 
raise  my  umbrella,  and  sat  down  on  a  convenient  hum- 
mock to  await  its  passing.  The  boy,  at  the  same  time, 
crawled  into  the  lee  of  a  bank  just  above.  From  this 
high  perch  I  had  in  sight  a  fine  sweep  of  lofty  cliffs 
extending  along  the  coast,  until  lost  to  view  in  the 
hazy  distance.  Seaward  there  were  frequent  rocky 
islets  girt  about  by  the  foaming  waves  tearing  cease- 
lessly at  their  crumbling  ramparts,  and,  near  at  hand, 
feeding  peacefully  on  the  steep  slope,  were  a  few  cows 
and  several  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep. 

I  lingered  where  I  sat  for  some  time  after  the  rain 
had  ceased  falling,  and  presently  along  came  a  party 
of  tourists,  ascending  with  the  intent  to  climb  to  the 
topmost  height  of  the  promontory.  Three  natives 
were  in  attendance,  one  with  a  hamper  on  his  back, 
another  loaded  with  a  bag  of  peats,  and  the  third,  a 


198  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

boy,  at  the  rear  of  the  procession,  bearing  a  teapot. 
I  was  cordially  invited  to  join  this  caravan,  but  I  con- 
cluded instead  to  return  to  my  car.  The  driver  was 
waiting  for  me  with  the  information  that  there  was  just 
time  to  get  to  the  "  Cathedral  Cliffs  "  before  high  tide, 
which  would  make  them  inaccessible.  As  it  was,  we 
would  have  to  race  for  them,  he  said.  So  off  we  went 
by  a  short  cut  along  the  shore  —  a  straight  three  miles 
of  hard,  wet  beach  that  held  reflections  like  a  mirror, 
and  over  which  the  horse  padded  very  fast  and 
smoothly.  Then  we  came  to  a  muddy  torrent  right 
athwart  our  course,  so  fierce  and  loud  I  thought  it 
would  sweep  us  out  to  sea  if  we  attempted  crossing. 
But  into  it  we  drove  and  picked  a  careful  passage  to 
the  farther  side  and  hurried  on  once  more. 

Finally  the  beach  ended  abruptly  in  a  line  of  great 
cliffs  that  the  waves  had  chiselled  into  stupendous 
caverns  and  arches.  The  rock  that  formed  the  bluffs 
was  in  layers  distinct  enough  in  their  marking  to  look 
at  a  little  distance  as  if  they  were  man's  handiwork. 
One  section  that  was  particularly  fine  took  the  form 
of  fretted  columns,  and,  overhead,  a  green  bank  sloped 
down  from  far  above  like  a  roof,  giving  the  whole  quite 
the  appearance  of  a  big  church. 

To  get  a  closer  view  of  this  temple  of  nature  I  left 
the  car,  and  walked  along  at  the  foot  of  the  crags  over 
a  beach  strewn  with  rounded  stones   and  brightened 


An  Island  on  the  Wild  West  Coast         199 

with  shreds  of  seaweed  from  the  distant  tropics.  The 
tide  was  fast  rising  and  the  waves  were  roaring  on  the 
strand,  and  sliding  in  farther  and  farther  and  trimming 
it  narrower  each  moment.  Already  the  green  water 
had  invaded  the  outer  arches  of  the  cathedral.  But 
the  spot  was  a  grand  one,  and  I  stayed  on  until  I  heard 
the  faint  shout  of  my  driver  behind  me,  and  saw  him 
standing  up  in  the  car  and  waving  his  whip  excitedly. 
I  took  warning  and  started  back ;  where  there  were 
smooth  stretches  I  ran,  and  when  I  reached  the  car 
and  clambered  aboard  the  driver  lashed  his  horse  and 
we  were  off  at  a  gallop.  The  sandy  beach,  which  a 
little  before  was  many  rods  wide,  was  now  a  mere  rib- 
bon, and  the  waves,  stealthy,  powerful,  insistent,  in  a 
minute  more  would  wipe  it  out  altogether.'  I  clung  to 
the  car,  the  horse  raced,  and,  at  the  last  moment,  with 
the  waves  lapping  about  the  wheel-spokes,  we  turned 
sharply  aside  and  climbed  over  a  great  ridge  of  pebbles, 
and  were  on  the  firm  turf  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
hungry  sea,  which  had  taken  full  possession  of  the 
beach  we  had  just  left. 

We  now  went  on  back  to  Doogort ;  and  when  we 
arrived,  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  I  took  a  fancy  to 
get  a  downlook  on  the  country  from  the  mountain  near 
the  hotel.  This  mountain  was  twenty-two  hundred  feet 
high,  but  the  guide-books  and  the  people  at  the  hotel 
said  the  ascent  was  easy,  and  I   started  with  cheerful 


200  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

anticipations.  I  went  up  a  village  lane  that  soon  car- 
ried me  beyond  the  little  group  of  houses  and  huddling 
fields  into  the  marshlands.  Then  I  followed  the  top 
of  a  turfed  wall  for  a  time,  and  after  that  jumped  along 
on  the  tussocks  of  the  bog,  avoiding  the  wet  hollows  as 
much  as  possible.  The  bog  did  not  keep  to  the  lower 
slopes,  as  I  expected,  but  went  up  and  up,  and  the  whole 
mountain  side  was  wrapped  with  its  miry  mosses.  The 
spongy  earth,  thickly  hidden  by  grasses  and  heather, 
was  soaking,  and  the  water  came  squeezing  out  in  quan- 
tities with  every  footstep.     It  was  steep,  hard  work. 

At  length  I  came  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice  that 
looked  as  if  half  the  mountain  on  the  seaward  side 
had  slid  away,  and  along  the  verge  of  this  cliff  I 
continued  to  zigzag  for  a  long  time,  getting  higher  and 
higher  and  more  and  more  tired.  The  wind  blew  in 
rough  gusts  that  in  the  exposed  places  threatened  to 
carry  me  away,  and  every  little  while  a  shower  came 
pelting  down,  and  I  would  hunt  up  a  boulder  for  a 
seat  and  huddle  beneath  my  umbrella.  On  ahead 
rose  a  pinnacle  of  rocks  toward  which  I  had  been  long 
striving.  I  had  thought  this  projection  would  be  near 
the  summit,  but  when  I  actually  gained  it  I  saw  that 
the  crown  of  the  mountain  was  still  far  skyward. 
Apparently  I  had  only  come  about  halfway,  and  the 
rest  of  the  distance  was  all  strewn  with  splintered  rock 
and  was  worse  than  the   bog   I    had   been    climbing 


■MttHHNH 


U 

< 

a! 

- 
w 

H 
<c 

U 

K 


An   Island  on  the  Wild  West  Coast         201 

through.  Below  lay  the  world  spread  out  like  a  map 
—  hills  and  valleys,  villages,  roads,  a  lake,  the  sea, 
several  islands,  and,  far  off  eastward,  the  dim  mainland, 
while  over  all  hovered  the  wraiths  of  the  doubtful, 
oft-changing  weather  —  fog,  showers,  cloud  shadows, 
gleams  of  sunlight,  and  now  and  then  a  vague  rain- 
bow. High  above  me,  marked  by  a  flagstaff,  was  the 
mountain  summit,  one  minute  lost  in  a  whirl  of  mists 
and  wild  clouds,  and  the  next  minute  coming  forth 
clear  and  powerful  and  beckoning  me  upward. 

But  it  was  of  no  use.  The  experience  in  climbing 
to  the  point  already  attained  was  sufficient,  and  I  now 
went  jolting  and  slipping  on  the  rough  journey  down- 
ward. When  I  reached  the  hotel  I  made  a  reckon- 
ing of  the  number  of  showers  I  had  been  out  in  that 
day,  and  could  recall  nine.  Besides  these,  several 
others  preceded  my  start  in  the  morning,  or  fell  after 
I  returned  in  the  evening. 

I  had  finished  dining  and  gone  to  my  room,  when 
some  commotion  outside  drew  me  to  the  window. 
There,  on  a  wall  close  below,  lay  the  long,  sleek  body 
of  a  seal,  shot  that  day  by  a  hotel  guest,  on  an  islet 
fifteen  miles  distant.  The  caverns  of  this  islet  are  a 
famous  haunt  of  the  seals,  and  parties  frequently  row 
out  to  have  a  try  at  the  game.  The  seals  are  of  one 
of  the  coarser  species,  and  the  skins  have  little  value, 
save  as  trophies  of  the  hunt  to  decorate,  in  the  form  of 
rugs,  the  sportsmen's  homes. 


202  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  guests  at  this  Doogort 
hostelry  to  gather  in  the  parlor  evenings  to  chat,  and 
to  hear  the  landlord  tell  stories.  I  found  a  company 
of  fifteen  or  twenty  there  when  I  came  down  from  my 
room.  A  tall  Englishman  was  discoursing  about  the 
day's  shooting  on  the  seal  island.  He  said  that  the 
natives  were  disinclined  themselves  to  molest  the  beasts, 
as  they  believed  the  seals  were  human  souls,  allowed 
by  special  grace  to  survive  the  deluge,  and  in  this 
shape  to  await  the  last  judgment.  He  added  that  one 
of  his  rowers  told  him  he  had  seen  a  mermaid  in 
Achill  waters  the  year  before,  and  that  five  other  men, 
who  were  with  him  at  the  time,  had  also  seen  her. 
She  was  at  first  swimming  toward  them,  and  they  dis- 
tinctly observed  her  woman's  face  and  her  long  hair 
floating  behind.  Then  she  turned  and  swam  away, 
and  they  saw  she  had  a  scaly  body  like  a  fish. 

This  reminded  one  of  the  company  gathered  about 
the  peat  fire  in  the  hotel  parlor,  that  only  the  other 
day,  in  Tipperary,  some  men  took  an  old  woman,  who 
was  said  to  be  a  fairy,  and  scorched  her  in  the  fire  to 
drive  out  the  evil  spirit.  They  burned  the  old  woman 
horribly,  and  it  was  doubtful  if  she  could  live. 

Next  our  landlord  took  a  turn.  He  said  :  cf  A  good 
many  believe  that  the  fairies  will  spirit  away  children. 
They  will  carry  off  a  healthy  child  and  leave  instead  a 
weazened  little  dwarf.     One  day  they  played  that  trick 


An  Island  on  the  Wild  West  Coast         203 

on  a  tailor,  and  he  kept  the  dwarf  several  years  and  it 
didn't  grow  any,  and  was  just  the  same  shrivelled  little 
thing  it  was  in  the  beginning.  Finally,  the  tailor  made 
up  his  mind  what  the  matter  was.  So  he  heated  his 
goose  red-hot  and  held  it  over  the  dwarf,  and  said, 
*  Now,  get  out  of  here  —  I  know  you  ! ' 

"  But  the  dwarf  never  let  on  it  noticed  him  ;  and 
the  tailor  lowered  the  goose  little  by  little  till  it  almost 
touched  the  dwarfs  face.  Then  the  dwarf  spoke  and 
said,  cWell,  HI  leave,  but  first  you  go  to  the  door 
and  look  round  the  corner/ 

"The  man  knew  if  he  did  that  the  dwarf  would  get 
the  best  of  him,  and  he  said  he  would  not.  Then  the 
dwarf  saw  'twas  no  use,  and  it  sprang  out  of  the  cradle 
and  went  roaring  and  cackling  up  the  chimney,  and  a 
good  child  lay  there  in  its  place. 

"  I  had  one  queer  experience  myself.  It  was  the 
time  of  the  Fenian  troubles.  I  was  sitting  up  late, 
—  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  after  midnight,  —  but 
I  hadn't  taken  anything,  and  was  as  sober  as  I  am  this 
minute.  Well,  it  got  to  be  very  late,  as  I  said,  and 
by  and  by  I  heard  strange  noises  in  the  hall.  It  was 
like  men  tramping  past,  and  they  kept  going  and  go- 
ing, hundreds  of  them,  and  they  were  dragging  dead 
bodies  and  all  that.  I  could  hear  their  breathing,  and 
I  could  hear  their  clothing  rub  along  against  the  walls. 
Then  the  ceiling  and  the  sides  of  the  room  I  was  in 


204  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

began  to  wave.  I  took  a  candle  and  went  out  in  the 
hall,  and  there  was  nothing  there,  doors  all  fastened, 
everything  all  right.  Now,  what  do  you  make  out  of 
that  ?  I  never  have  been  able  to  account  for  it  myself. 
"That  reminds  me  of  the  Achill  girl  that  went 
to  service  in  Dublin.  She  got  a  good  place  — 
wages  and  work  and  everything  were  perfectly  satis- 
factory ;  but  there  was  one  room  in  the  house  that 
she  wasn't  allowed  to  go  into,  and  that  troubled 
her.  She  saw  a  great  many  people  go  into  that  room, 
and  she  never  saw  any  of  them  come  out.  The 
room  was  always  quiet-like,  and  always  kept  locked, 
and  the  girl  never  had  a  chance  to  see  it,  till  one  day, 
when  the  house  folks  all  happened  to  be  away,  she 
found  they  had  left  the  key  in  the  door  of  that  room. 
So  she  went  in,  and  what  did  she  see  there  but  rows 
and  rows  of  heads  —  heads  of  beautiful  ladies  —  heads 
severed  from  the  bodies,  and  the  long  hair  hanging 
down  —  yes,  rows  and  rows  of  them ;  and  the  girl 
like  to  have  fainted,  and  she  got  out  of  there  in  a 
hurry  and  went  to  her  chamber  and  gathered  up  all  her 
belongings  and  came  home  —  never  notified  the  police 
nor  nothing.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  my  idea  is.  I 
think  it  was  a  barber's  shop  she  looked  into,  and  the 
customers  went  in  one  door,  and  out  another  that  she 
didn't  know  about,  and  it  was  just  wigs,  and  such 
fixings,  she  saw." 


< 

u 

o 

z 
o 


o 


An  Island  on  the  Wild  West  Coast        205 

The  company  laughed  and  commented  jokingly,  but 
presently  lapsed  into  silence  and  contemplatively  eyed 
the  glow  in  the  fireplace.  Then  the  landlord  asked  if 
we  had  ever  heard  of  the  Achill  hat.  He  said  that  in 
the  olden  time  a  hat  was  an  article  that  the  Achill  man 
never  wore  while  on  his  native  island.  But  when  he 
went  to  the  mainland  he  preferred  to  look  like  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  at  Achill  Sound,  where  the 
people  boated  themselves  across,  a  single  hat  was  kept 
on  a  pole.  When  a  man  was  going  to  town  on  the 
mainland  he  climbed  the  pole  and  got  the  hat.  On 
returning  he  shinned  the  pole  again  and  left  the  hat 
for  the  use  of  the  next  man. 

Following  this  story,  the  landlord  told  of  a  wreck 
that  makes  the  saddest  chapter  in  all  Achill's  history. 
Many  of  the  young  men  and  women  of  the  island 
spend  a  part  of  every  summer  in  Scotland  helping 
in  the  potato  harvest.  They  go  by  steamer  from 
Westport,  and  there  are  those  who  walk  the  whole 
forty  miles  thither,  but  most  make  the  journey  on 
some  fishing  smack.  A  few  years  ago,  when  prep- 
arations were  being  made  for  the  annual  exodus, 
a  man  who  owned  an  old  hooker  was  engaged 
to  carry  a  large  party  down  to  Westport  and  put 
them  aboard  the  Glasgow  steamer.  The  hooker  was 
only  allowed  by  law  to  carry  forty  persons,  but  the 
owner  was  to  get  a  shilling  apiece,  and,  intent  on  mak- 


2o6  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

ing  all  the  profit  he  could,  he  took  on  sixty-eight. 
The  day  was  quiet,  with  just  enough  wind  blowing  to 
make  it  pleasant  sailing,  and  Westport  was  reached  all 
right.  They  were  in  the  harbor  and  within  half  a 
mile  of  the  quay,  when  some  one  called  out  that  the 
Glasgow  boat  was  close  by. 

The  young  people  all  hastened  to  one  side  to  look, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  hooker  approached  the 
steamer  in  such  a  way  that  the  big  boat's  hull  took  all 
the  wind  out  of  the  hooker's  sails,  and  it  went  over  at 
once,  and  those  sixty-eight  Achill  folk  were  clinging 
together  and  struggling  in  the  water.  Thirty-eight  of 
them  were  drowned,  and  the  next  day  thirty-eight  cof- 
fins with  the  bodies  in  them  came  up  by  special  train 
to  Achill  Sound. 

All  the  population  of  the  island  was  at  the  station 
to  meet  them  —  a  thousand  people  or  more,  and  there 
were  sore  hearts  in  Achill  that  day.  One  family  lost 
five,  others  four,  three,  and  two.  The  man  who  owned 
the  hooker  drew  his  boat  up  on  the  beach,  and  there  it 
lies  to  this  day.  Those  who  escaped  drowning  returned 
to  Achill  and  gave  up  going  to  Scotland,  and  they 
never  have  got  the  better  of  their  fright,  and  never 
will,  the  landlord  said. 

Of  the  homes  on  the  island  he  related  that  it  was 
customary  to  keep  the  cows  and  pigs  in  the  living 
room,  and  when  there  was  a  pony  it  was  usually  tied 


An  Island  on  the  Wild  West  Coast         207 

to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  chickens  occupied  the 
same  apartment,  laid  their  eggs  in  any  part  of  the 
room  they  found  convenient,  and  roosted  on  the  rungs 
of  the  table.  Indeed,  the  people  are  so  poverty- 
stricken  that  the  home  conditions  could  hardly  be 
otherwise  than  comfortless  and  barren  to  the  last 
degree.  A  decade  or  so  ago  they  were  almost  starv- 
ing through  the  failure  of  their  crops  and  many  were 
assisted  to  free  emigration  across  the  Atlantic.  Since 
the  bridge  has  been  built  and  the  railroad  has  come, 
the  facilities  for  marketing  their  fish  and  farm  produce 
are  greatly  improved,  and  the  ordinary  necessities  of 
life  are  within  easier  reach  than  they  once  were.  Yet 
the  lacks  are  still  serious,  and  I  have  never  seen  a 
region  more  boggy,  storm  swept,  and  desolate. 


XI 


A    BOGLAND    SCHOOLMASTER 


F 


FORMERLY  the  school- 
house  had  been  a  dwell- 
ing,   and    a    family    still 


-— *■  ing,  ana  a 
C  lived  in  one  end.  It  was  close 
by  the  roadside,  a  low, 
thatched  building,  just 
like  any  peasant's  cabin, 
"  save  for  a  small  wooden 
I  sign  on  its  front,  lettered 
in  bold  type,  "  Luckawn 
National  School."  The 
day  was  dull  and  threat- 
ened rain.  Indoor  shelter 
seemed  more  desirable 
than  outdoor  rambling,  and,  enticed  by  the  drone  of 
child  voices,  I  rapped  on  the  patched  and  decrepit 
schoolhouse  door.  The  schoolmaster  opened  it.  He 
was  a  tall  lank  man  with  tumbled  hair  and  a  ragged 
brown  beard,   and  looked  as  if  he   had  been  having 


lOli 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  209 

exciting  times.  He  wore  an  overcoat  that  hung  limply 
from  his  sloping  shoulders  ;  there  was  a  great  square 
patch  on  one  knee;  his  collar  had  long  been  a  stranger 
to  water  and  starch,  and  his  necktie  was  frayed  and  out 
of  place.  He  peered  at  me  through  his  spectacles  from 
the  low  doorway,  and  when  he  had  recovered  from  his 
surprise  at  so  unusual  an  occurrence  as  the  advent  of  a 
visitor,  he  made  me  welcome. 

The  school  occupied  a  single  small  room,  and  had 
to  get  along  without  a  hall  or  even  a  closet.  Such 
of  the  boys  as  wore  caps  and  such  of  the  girls  as  wore 
shawls,  a  garment  commonly  serving  the  double  pur- 
pose of  wrap  and  head-covering,  bestowed  these  arti- 
cles of  raiment  in  an  aperture  where  once  had  been  a 
window.  Overhead  was  no  ceiling  other  than  the  raf- 
ters and  cross  strips  supporting  the  thatch,  shadowy 
and  begrimed,  and  draped  with  sooty  cobwebs.  Three 
small  windows  admitted  light  through  the  thick  walls, 
but  were  far  from  successful  in  coping  adequately  with 
the  gloom  of  the  apartment.  They  had  cracks  about 
them,  and  so  had  the  shabby  door,  and  the  smoky 
little  fireplace  could  hardly  have  done  more  than  miti- 
gate the  chill  of  the  room  in  really  cold  weather. 

Long,  rude  desks,  with  accompanying  backless 
benches,  filled  about  half  the  floor  space.  The  children 
were  nearly  all  barefoot,  and  their  clothing  was  ragged 
and  much  patched.     The  master  said  he  encouraged 


210  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

them  to  go  barefoot,  and  he  wished  they  all  did.  He 
believed  it  was  healthier,  but  his  chief  reason  was  that 
the  expense  of  shoes  was  too  great  for  some ;  and  yet 
if  the  habit  of  wearing  them  was  general  among  the 
more  prosperous,  pride  would  force  the  others  to  have 
them  also.  A  few  came  barefoot  to  school  right 
through  the  winter,  but  all  of  the  children  and  the 
women  of  the  region,  too,  had  shoes  for  wear  to  Sunday 
mass,  though  many  of  them  ought  not  to  have  been 
guilty  of  such  extravagance. 

In  one  corner  stood  the  master's  small,  much- 
battered  desk,  that,  after  all,  was  less  a  desk  than  it 
was  a  cupboard  to  hold  the  lesson  books,  slates,  and 
other  school  materials.  What  the  space  underneath 
the  desk  failed  to  accommodate  was  stowed  close  by 
in  a  box,  or  leaned  against  the  wall,  or  was  heaped  up 
on  the  floor.  The  school  supplies  were  of  the  cheapest 
possible  description,  usually  much  the  worse  for  wear. 
Most  of  the  books  were  thin  little  affairs  in  limp 
cloth  covers  that  cost  only  a  cent  or  two.  The  paper 
was  coarse,  the  illustrations  rude,  and  the  printing 
very  bad.  Their  literary  and  pedagogic  merits  were 
not  much  better.  Books  and  other  necessaries  were 
bought  by  the  master,  and  the  children  were  supposed 
to  pay  him  for  what  they  used.  But  it  was  a  very 
poor  district,  and  those  who  reimbursed  him  were  the 
exception  rather  than  the  rule. 


o 

2 

s 

< 
06 


< 

- 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  211 

The  master  had  brought  the  only  chair  the  room 
contained  from  behind  his  desk  for  me  when  I  entered, 
and  I  sat  down  to  look  on  while  the  school  continued 
its  work.  My  knock  had  interrupted  the  roll-call. 
This  was  resumed,  and  the  master  checked  off  the 
remaining  names  on  his  register.  At  the  same  time 
one  of  the  boys  stood  on  the  floor  with  a  slate  in  his 
hands  and  counted  those  present  —  eighteen  boys  and 
fourteen  girls.  That  done  the  master  made  a  reckon- 
ing to  be  sure  his  register  and  the  boy's  figures  agreed, 
and  then  noted  down  the  numbers  and  the  total  on  a 
small  blackboard  hung  near  the  fireplace  next  to  a 
silent,  broken-glassed  clock.  The  attendance  was 
about  the  average  for  that  time  of  year ;  but  in  winter, 
when  the  young  folks,  who  during  the  summer  are  off 
to  service  in  richer  and  more  fertile  sections,  are  home, 
he  often  had  a  school  of  sixty.  That  was  too  many 
for  one  person  to  instruct  effectively  in  so  small  a 
room,  and  he  did  not  try  to  do  much  teaching.  His 
efforts  were  absorbed  in  the  attempt  to  keep  them 
employed  and  out  of  mischief.  Some  of  the  winter 
scholars  were  eighteen  years  old,  but  none  came  over 
thirteen  in  summer.  Two  hundred  days  made  a 
school  year.  Few  of  the  pupils,  however,  were  pres- 
ent more  than  half  the  time,  the  master  said,  for 
neither  they  nor  their  parents  cared  whether  they  got 
any  education  or  not. 


212  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

In  their  studying  the  children  were  noisy,  restless, 
and  chaotic.  They  conned  their  lessons  in  whispers 
or  aloud ;  they  moved  about  and  even  stood  on  their 
benches ;  they  played,  and  they  drew  pictures  on  their 
slates,  and  they  spoke  to  each  other  freely  and  some- 
times had  sharp-voiced  disputes.  One  of  the  smaller 
boys  spent  most  of  his  time  crawling  about  on  the 
floor. 

The  teaching  and  keeping  of  order  were  in  part 
intrusted  to  several  of  the  older  scholars,  who  took 
turns  in  trying  to  make  the  children  in  the  seats  attend 
to  their  studies  and  in  putting  questions  to  classes  on 
the  floor.  Often  there  were  two  such  classes  out  at  the 
same  time,  one  in  a  far  corner  studying  a  dingy  wall 
chart  or  map,  and  another  standing  in  a  little  group 
near  a  window,  reading  or  spelling,  or  going  over  an 
arithmetic  lesson.  The  members  of  these  classes  were 
an  unruly  lot,  and  cared  little  for  the  authority  of  their 
schoolmate  teachers.  The  monitors  did  their  best  to 
live  up  to  their  positions  by  rapping  the  delinquents 
over  the  head  with  a  pointer ;  but  such  treatment  was 
not  always  meekly  tolerated,  and  I  noticed  in  par- 
ticular one  spunky  little  girl  who  never  failed  to  slap 
back.  Yet  she  and  all  the  rest  were  afraid  of  the  mas- 
ter and  quailed  before  him.  Most  of  them  had  a 
worried,  harassed  look,  as  if  in  constant  fear  of  im- 
pending disaster,  and  not  without  reason. 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  213 

The  master  was  naturally  kindly,  fond  of  children, 
and  had  the  welfare  of  the  neighborhood  much  at 
heart.  But  from  old-fashioned  habit  and  theory  he 
was  a  tyrant  in  his  petty  realm,  though  he  may  have 
been  that  day  more  autocratic  than  usual,  with  intent 
to  impress  on  me  his  earnest  purpose  to  do  his  work 
thoroughly.  His  voice  and  manner  were  severe  and 
explosive,  and  the  children  seemed  to  regard  him  as  a 
perfect  ogre.  In  an  intermittent  way  he  made  the 
whole  school  feel  the  rigor  of  his  rule,  and  the  poor 
monitors,  whose  trials  I  thought  were  heavy  enough 
already,  came  in  for  a  generous  share  of  his  contumely. 

"  Are  they  working,  girl  ? ,:  his  rasping  voice  in- 
quires of  a  barefoot  thirteen-year-old  with  a  ragamuffin 
geography  class.  "  They  are  not,  indeed ! "  and  he 
makes  a  hop  to  her  across  the  floor  like  a  Jack-in-the- 
box,  and  administers  a  cuff  on  the  ear.  Then  he 
skirmishes  about  with  flying  arms  and  gives  the  whole 
class  a  disciplining. 

"  Now,  boy,"  says  he,  returning  to  his  own  class  and 
indicating  a  youngster  before  him,  who  had  neglected 
his  book  to  watch  the  descent  on  the  geography  stu- 
dents, cc  what  are  you  doing  ?  " 

He  gives  the  boy  a  push,  and  taps  him  on  the  side 
of  the  head  with  a  pointer.  That  pointer  was  the 
master's  sceptre.  He  could  give  most  startling  raps 
with  it  on  his  desk,  he  could  rattle  it  with  ominous 


214  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

warning  on  the  covers  of  the  book  he  held  in  his  hand, 
and  he  was  constantly  using  it  more  or  less  energeti- 
cally on  his  scholars'  craniums.  Physical  force  in  the 
form  of  a  shove  or  a  slap  was  his  favorite  method  of 
straightening  the  pupils  into  position,  and  he  often 
accelerated  an  individual's  progress  to  and  from  class 
by  reaching  out  his  hand  to  the  back  of  the  culprit's 
head,  and  making  him  or  her  break  into  a  little 
run. 

"  Blow  up  that  fire,  boy  !  "  he  commanded  of  a  sud- 
den. The  lad  chosen  for  the  task  dropped  as  if  he 
had  been  shot,  and  so  escaped  the  hastening  hand 
which  was  about  to  catch  him.  On  his  knees,  with 
cheeks  distended  he  blew  brightness  into  the  smoulder- 
ing coals  on  the  low  hearth,  and  then  added  fresh  fuel 
from  a  little  heap  of  peat  blocks  lying  near  on  the 
broken  and  patched  floor.  This  peat  was  supplied  the 
year  through  by  the  children  themselves,  who  brought 
it  from  home,  a  few  sods  at  a  time,  in  their  hands. 
The  replenished  fire  began  to  blaze  and  to  smoke,  and 
the  room  grew  so  hazy  that  the  master  had  the  boy 
open  the  door,  and  put  a  stone  against  its  base  to  keep 
it  open  for  a  time. 

The  youngest  child  in  the  squad  lined  up  before 
the  master  was  a  boy  of  six,  in  skirts,  who  did  him- 
self credit  by  reading  a  lesson  of  four-letter  words 
without  a  mistake.     On  the  strength  of  this  success, 


The   Teacher   at   Home 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  215 

the  master  tried  him  on  something  harder,  and  he 
soon  struck  a  word  that  brought  him  to  a  full  stop. 

"  Go  on  now,  like  a  man,"  encouraged  the  master, 
looking  over  the  rims  of  his  spectacles  with  his  head  a 
little  on  one  side. 

The  boy  regarded  his  book  attentively,  and  scratched 
the  back  of  one  foot  with  the  toes  of  the  other,  all  to 
no  purpose. 

"  You're  stuck  !  "  cried  the  master. 

The  boy  sounded  the  first  letters  of  the  word,  and 
stopped  again. 

"  That's  right !  "  the  master  exclaimed,  leaning  for- 
ward with  hopeful  intentness.  "  You  have  it  in  your 
lips  —  speak  up  !  " 

But  the  boy  failed  his  instructor  at  this  crisis,  and 
the  master  turned  regretfully  away.  "  Tell  him,  any 
one  in  the  class/'  he  said. 

Just  then  he  noted  that  a  girl  in  the  seats  was  the 
centre  of  a  small  riot,  and  he  called  out,  "  Mary  Ann, 
will  you  conduct  yourself? " 

Mary  Ann  conducted  herself,  and  the  reading  lesson 
proceeded.  One  of  the  older  boys  took  a  turn,  but 
he  stumbled  over  his  words  sadly,  and  the  master's 
wrath  promptly  rose.  "You  are  not  watching,  you 
sleepy  thing,  you  !  "  said  he,  and  he  gave  the  lad  a 
punch  by  way  of  emphasis.  "  Put  some  life  into  it,  sir  ! 
Begin  again,  and  read  that  as  a  Christian  should ! " 


2 1 6  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

The  boy  did  as  he  was  bid,  but  in  his  fright  stam- 
mered worse  than  ever.  "  You  must  do  better  than 
that,"  the  master  ordered,  "  or  I'll  pitch  the  nose  off 
from  you !     Put  your  finger  on  the  words,  now  !  " 

After  the  reading  came  spelling,  beginning  with  the 
word  "larch,"  which  fell  to  one  of  the  girls.  She 
looked  around  doubtfully. 

"  Spell  it  like  a  good  girl,"  coaxed  the  master ;  and 
she  responded  in  hasty  falsetto,  "  L-r-r-c-hetch." 

That  was  correct,  for  the  Irish  pronounce  a  and  r  ex- 
actly alike.  Their  h  also  has  an  un-American  individ- 
uality, while  the  final  letter  of  the  alphabet  they  call 
zed.  But  nothing  in  the  spelling-lesson  seemed  to  me 
quite  so  astonishing  as  to  have  the  master  presently 
give  out  whole  sentences  for  the  children  to  spell 
through,  as,  for  instance,  "  All  birds  come  from  eggs." 
This,  and  other  sentences,  even  longer,  were  wrestled 
with  more  or  less  successfully,  just  as  if  they  had  been 
many-syllabled  words. 

The  master  handed  me  one  of  the  books  from  which 
the  children  had  been  reciting.  It  was  a  fresh  copy 
from  a  small  grocer's  box  behind  his  desk,  and  its 
only  blemish  was  a  corner  that  had  been  nibbled  by 
the  schoolroom  mice.  The  cover  was  of  flexible  red 
cloth,  and  looked  bright,  modern,  and  attractive.  On 
it  was  stamped  the  name,  "  First  Book  of  Lessons," 
and    the    price,   "  one    half-penny."     The    title-page 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  217 

showed  that  it  was  "  printed  and  published  by  direc- 
tion of  the  Commissioners  of  National  Education, 
Ireland."  It  was  not  then  a  local  schoolbook,  but 
one  prepared  for  general  use,  and  I  was  a  little  aston- 
ished when  I  turned  over  the  leaves  to  find  it  remi- 
niscent of  our  American  schoolbooks  of  fifty  or 
seventy-five  years  ago.  I  noted  that  it  had  a  flavor 
of  unconscious  Irish  humor,  and  that  the  dry  educa- 
tional method  adopted  for  its  framework  was  clothed 
with  a  phrasing  and  an  uncertainty  of  what  was  coming 
next,  that,  to  a  reader  not  a  native,  was  full  of  surprise 
and  entertainment. 

Lesson  I.  contained  the  picture  of  an  ox,  above 
which  was  a  line  of  disconnected  letters  that  looked 
like  some  mystic  word  —  a  i  m  n  o  s  t  x  y.  Below 
the  picture  were  the  following  remarks  :  — 

an  ox,   my  ox,  is   it   an   ox  ? 

it   is,  is   it   so,  is   it   my   ox  ? 

no  ox,  so  it  is,  is  it  so  ?  no. 

The  ox  was  honored  with  a  first  place  in  the  book 
because  it  could  be  spelled  with  two  letters,  while  none 
of  the  other  animals  at  all  familiar  can  be  spelled  with 
less  than  three.  In  the  first  four  lessons  no  word  of 
over  two  letters  was  allowed.  Then  followed  eight 
lessons  where  the  limit  was  three-letter  words,  and  not 
till  more  than  fifty  of  the  sixty-four  pages  were  passed 
was  there  any  word  exceeding  one  syllable. 


2i 8  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

Such  sentences  as  the  following  were  characteristic 
of  Lessons  II.  and  III. :  — 

is  he  up  or  no  ? 
lo,   we  go. 

And  there  was  this  odd  dialogue  concerning  j,  z  and 

certain  of  the  other  letters  :  — 

is  he  at  j,   or  at  z  ? 

he  is  at  z  ;    I  am  at  j. 

is  it  q  ?    no,   it  is  p. 

is  it  v  ?  no,  it  is  u. 
The  comments  on  these  last  four  letters  sound  con- 
tradictory and  too  much  like  juggling  with  the  truth, 
but  I  suppose  the  intention  was  simply  to  furnish  a 
clever  devise  for  making  a  child  recognize  the  differ- 
ence between  letters  that  resembled  each  other  closely. 
It  seemed  to  be  the  compiler's  idea  that  this  sort  of 
thing  was  a  most  valuable  educational  principle,  and 
right  through  the  book  no  effort  was  spared  to  bring 
near  together  words  that  were  similar  in  length,  sound, 
and  look,  no  matter  how  unrelated  the  sentences. 

On  page  5  I  found  that  time-honored  statement, 
"The  cat  has  a  rat,"  beginning  a  paragraph  which 
went  on  and  seemingly  spoke  of  the  rat  thus  —  "  Can 
it  be  Sam  or  Pat  ?  It  is  Sam."  The  reason  why  it 
was  Sam  and  not  Pat  was  apparently  explained  in 
the  next  two  sentences,  which  affirmed  that  "  Pat  had 
on  a  hat.  He  sat  on  a  mat."  If  that  does  not  satisfy 
you  that  Pat  was  not  the  rat,  what  will  ? 


The   Schoolmaster's   Wife 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  219 

Pat  was  a  favorite  hero  of  these  little  lessons, 
though  he  had  to  share  prominence  with  Joe,  Ned, 
Tom,  Mat,  and  a  number  of  other  boys  whose 
names  were  shortened  in  the  same  way.  Leading 
characters  among  the  girls  were  Bess,  Jane,  Eva,  and 
Rose. 

The  book  did  not  fail  to  inculcate  good  principles. 
In  one  of  the  earlier  lessons,  for  instance,  after  inquir- 
ing, without  any  preliminary  reference  to  the  article 
mentioned,  "  Is  it  a  pin  or  a  pen  ?  "  as  if  you  would  be 
likely  to  confuse  the  two,  the  text  abruptly  declared, 
"  I  will  do  no  sin."  This  skipping  from  one  topic 
to  another  in  the  patchwork  of  the  paragraphs  was 
further  exemplified  in  the  following  mixture  of  milk, 
tar,  and  morals  in  three  consecutive  sentences  :  "  There 
is  milk  in  the  jar.  Tar  is  put  on  a  rope.  It  is  sad  to 
be  at  war." 

Like  plums  in  a  pudding  religious  maxims  were 
scattered  all  through  the  book  —  not  in  any  discern- 
ible order,  but  as  if  the  compiler  had  tucked  them  in 
here  and  there  by  chance  whenever  the  idea  occurred 
to  him.  The  theology,  like  the  pedagogy  of  the  book, 
gradually  developed,  and  on  page  24  I  found  at  the 
end  of  a  purely  secular  lesson  a  complete  paragraph 
devoted  to  the  subject :  — 

"  God  loves  us,  and  sent  his  Son  to  save  us.  The 
word  of  God  tells  us  to  love  him.     If  we  are  bad  God 


220  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

will  not  love  us,  and  we  shall  not  go  to  him,  when  we 
go  from  this  world." 

It  seemed  a  pity  to  present  God  to  the  child  mind 
in  so  forbidding  an  aspect.  The  sequence  and  con- 
nection found  in  the  above  were  lacking  in  most 
parts  of  the  book,  and  the  religious  element  was  usu- 
ally minimized  by  what  followed  or  preceded  it,  as  in 
this :  "  To  do  ill  is  a  sin.  Can  you  run  far  ? "  Or 
this :  "  Sound  the  horn.  A  child  of  the  dust  should 
not  be  proud."  Running  may  have  some  vague  con- 
nection with  sinning,  but  what  has  sounding  the  horn 
to  do  with  pride?  Here  is  still  another  example  of 
the  same  sort :  "  Is  he  friend  or  foe  ?  Have  you  hurt 
your  toe  ?  A  good  boy  will  not  tell  a  lie.  Sin  is  the 
cause  of  all  our  woe." 

Science  found  a  place  in  the  book  in  random  remarks 
like :  "  Gold  is  not  white  as  tin  is,"  cc  A  snail  can  put 
out  his  horns  and  draw  them  in,"  "  The  moon  gives 
light  by  night,  and  the  sun  by  day." 

The  primer  had  frequent  pictures  which,  while  not 
without  interest,  were  uniformly  rude  and  blotty. 
The  text  below  the  picture  of  the  ox,  to  which  I  have 
referred,  though  a  trifle  uncertain  in  its  comments  on 
the  creature,  sticks  to  the  one  subject.  The  more 
usual  relations  of  the  picture  to  the  text  are  better 
illustrated  by  another  lesson  a  few  pages  farther  along. 
The  cut  represented  a  man  in  a  big  coat,  carrying  a 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  221 

basket  on  his  arm,  and  hobbling  along  with  the  aid  of 
a  cane.  He  had  his  dog  with  him,  while  two  goats 
were  feeding  on  the  near  hillside,  and  in  the  distance 
there  was  a  small  house.  The  first  sentence,  appar- 
ently speaking  of  the  man,  said,  "  He  was  born  in  a 
house  on  the  hill."  Then  came  the  question,  "  Is 
rice  a  kind  of  corn  ? "  Afterward,  so  far  as  one  can 
judge,  we  return  to  the  man  with  the  remark,  "  He 
wants  a  firm  kind  of  cord."  Why  he  wants  a  firm 
kind  of  cord  is  left  a  mystery,  for  the  rest  of  the  lesson 
is :  "  Get  me  a  cork  for  the  ink  jar.  The  morn 
is  the  first  part  of  the  day.  This  is  my  son;  I 
hope  you  will  like  him.  My  son,  sin  not,  for  God 
hates  sin." 

I  will  quote  one  more  full  lesson  to  show  the 
capacity  of  a  paragraph  for  condensed  chaos  and 
picturesque  variety. 

"  Can  a  worm  walk  ?  No,  it  has  no  feet ;  but  it 
can  creep.  The  child  is  sick  ;  tell  her  not  to  cry ; 
let  her  stay  in  bed  and  sleep.  This  cliff  is  steep,  and 
I  feel  my  head  light  as  I  look  down.  Did  you  meet 
Fred  in  the  street?  Weep  no  more.  My  boot  is  too 
tight;  it  hurts  my  foot,  and  I  am  lame.  Will  you 
drive  the  sheep  home  for  me  ? " 

In  the  last  third  of  the  book  the  lessons  changed  in 
style  and  each  confined  itself  to  one  subject.  A  fair 
example  of  this  was  the  lesson  about 


222  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

"  The  cow  is  one  of  those  beasts  that  chew  the  cud. 
She  is  of  great  use  to  us.  She  gives  us  nice  milk  to 
drink ;  her  flesh,  which  we  call  beef,  is  good  for  food, 
and  her  hide  makes  us  shoes  and  boots.  Of  the 
bones  of  the  cow  we  make  combs  and  spoons ;  and 
of  her  fat  we  make  soap,  so  that  each  part  of  her  is  of 
use.  We  ought  to  be  kind  to  the  cow  which  gives  us 
such  good  things." 

That  is  realism  with  a  vengeance.  Just  think  of 
the  milk  we  have  now  from  the  cow,  and  of  the  beef 
and  leather,  spoons  and  soap,  that  are  in  prospect ! 

The  volume  as  a  whole  did  not  seem  to  me  calcu- 
lated to  stimulate  very  much  a  child's  love  of  knowledge 
or  literature,  yet  it  seemed  to  serve  the  purpose  of  un- 
locking the  doors  of  learning  to  these  Luckawn  young- 
sters, and  I  fancy  there  may  have  been  something  in 
its  style  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  Irish  temperament. 

The  pupil  who  had  the  most  distressing  experience 
during  my  school  visit  was  a  mild,  red-headed  boy  about 
eleven  years  old.  He  failed  in  his  grammar,  and  the 
master  set  him  to  doing  his  task  over  again  —  a  dread- 
ful purgatory  of  parsing.  Half  an  hour  later  the 
boy's  ideas  proved  to  be  as  hazy  as  ever.  There  he 
stood,  with  his  hanging  head,  alone  before  the  master, 
who  called  him  a  "  villain "  and  a  "  scoundrel "  and 


< 

< 


mm3  #:»*•■$,  4 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  223 

added,  "  You're  the  laziest  feller  ever  I  met !  Now, 
try  that  again  !  Ah,  worse  and  worse  !  That's  ter- 
rible !  That's  the  way  ye'll  do  with  the  inspector," 
and  he  mocked  the  boy  with  cutting  sarcasm. 

"  Now,  answer  me  this  !  "  he  continued.  "  Is  that 
worrud  a  verrub  or  isn't  it  a  verrub  ?  " 

But  the  boy,  breathless,  and  half  scared  to  death, 
stood  like  a  confessed  criminal  awaiting  sentence. 
The  master's  rage  waxed  keener,  and  his  voice  rose 
stormily,  "  Say  it  out !  "  he  shouted,  "  or  I'll  put  your 
head  on  the  other  side  of  your  face !  I'll  throw  you 
out  of  the  door  for  disgracin'  the  school ! '  and  he 
knocked  the  grammar  out  of  the  lad's  hand  onto  the 
floor. 

"  Now,  pick  that  up  and  give  it  to  me !  "  was  his 
next  command  ;  "  quickly,  quick  !  " 

The  boy  obeyed.  He  was  crying  and  the  tears  were 
trickling  down ;  but  the  master  hushed  him  up  and 
said,  still  wrathfully,  "  Clean  your  nose,  boy  !  Hurry, 
or  I'll  get  Anthony  Kelly  to  come  up  and  clean  it ! " 

Then  the  master  once  more  had  his  pupil  try  the 
grammar  lesson,  and  that  not  availing,  he  in  despair 
dashed  the  book  in  the  boy's  face,  and  sent  him 
weeping  to  his  seat. 

It  was  the  most  volcanic  performance  I  had  ever 
seen  in  a  schoolroom,  and  I  was  a  good  deal  disturbed. 
Perhaps  the  master  noticed  this,  for  he   hastened  to 


224  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

explain  that  the  boy  was  his  own,  or  he  would  not 
have  been  so  sharp.  I  left  soon  afterward,  but  not 
before  the  master  had  given  me  an  urgent  invita- 
tion to  call  on  him  in  the  evening.  He  wanted  to 
talk  about  America.  That  boy  of  his,  he  was  afraid, 
with  all  his  teaching,  would  be  no  scholar.  He  did 
not  seem  to  take  to  book-learning,  and  he  would  have 
to  work  with  his  hands  for  a  living,  and  his  father  was 
thinking  America  would  be  the  best  place  for  the  lad. 

I  accepted  the  master's  invitation,  and  on  my  way 
to  his  home  that  evening  was  passing  the  schoolhouse, 
when  someone  rapped  to  me  on  a  window.  It  was 
the  master.  He  said  he  often  worked  there  at  his 
desk,  after  school  hours,  as  long  as  he  could  see,  for  he 
was  going  to  take  examinations  soon,  in  the  hope  to 
gain  a  promotion.  As  a  younger  man  he  had  been 
too  fond  of  the  drink,  and  he  keenly  regretted  those 
years  wasted  in  dissipation,  and  felt  he  must  now  make 
up  for  lost  time. 

He  gave  up  drinking  to  become  a  member  of  the 
Father  Mathew  Total  Abstinence  Society  —  an  organi- 
zation which  has  branches,  not  only  throughout  Ireland, 
but  in  all  parts  of  the  world  to  which  the  Irish  have 
emigrated.  Its  founder,  born  in  1790,  was  a  priest  of 
the  order  of  Capuchins  in  the  city  of  Cork.  His 
disposition  was  singularly  charitable  and  benevolent, 
and  his  gentleness  and  affability,  his  simple  and  efFec- 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  225 

tive  eloquence,  and  the  zeal  with  which  he  discharged 
the  duties  of  his  ministry,  won  for  him  the  universal 
love  and  respect  alike  of  rich  and  poor.  He  is  de- 
scribed as  a  man  somewhat  above  the  middle  size,  his 
features  handsome  and  expressive,  and  at  the  same 
time  peculiarly  mild  and  gracious,  his  manner  persua- 
sive and  easy,  and  humble  without  a  shadow  of  affec- 
tation, his  voice  low  and  musical.  No  one  could  have 
been  better  fitted  to  obtain  influence  over  a  people 
proverbially  swayed  by  the  affections. 

Previous  to  Father  Mathew's  time  drunkenness 
lacked  little  of  being  esteemed  a  positive  virtue  in 
Ireland.  Among  the  higher  classes  the  host  who 
suffered  one  of  his  guests  to  leave  his  table  sober 
would  have  been  considered  mean  and  inhospitable. 
Ingenious  devices  were  invented  for  compelling  intoxi- 
cation, such  as  glasses  and  bottles  so  formed  that  they 
could  not  stand,  and  must  be  emptied  before  they  were 
laid  on  the  table.  If  it  was  thought  that  a  departing 
guest  in  "  the  good  ould  times "  would  be  able  to 
mount  his  horse  without  assistance,  he  was  presented 
at  the  door  with  a  quart  glass  which  he  was  forced  to 
drain,  seldom  against  his  will.  An  Irishman  drunk 
was  an  Irishman  "  all  in  his  glory,"  and  the  more 
whiskey  he  could  carry  the  greater  the  distinction. 
The  lower  classes  were  by  no  means  behind  the  gentry 
in  their  love  of  strong  drink,  and  few  of  their  popular 

Q 


226  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

songs  were  without  some  reference  to  whiskey,  while 
its  praise  was  the  sole  theme  of  many  of  their  ditties. 

Such  was  the  situation  when  Father  Mathew,  at  the 
age  of  forty-eight,  inaugurated  the  temperance  move- 
ment associated  with  his  name.  At  first  the  society 
was  wholly  local,  but  Father  Mathew' s  marvellous  suc- 
cess in  Cork  led  to  the  suggestion  that  he  should  visit 
other  cities.  He  made  a  tour  of  Ireland,  and  later 
crossed  the  channel  and  made  his  plea  in  the  larger 
centres  of  Irish  population  in  England  and  Scotland. 
Everywhere  he  won  followers  in  great  numbers.  The 
formalities  of  joining  the  society  partook  of  the  reli- 
gious, and  were  accompanied  by  the  presentation  of  a 
medal,  to  which  the  utmost  reverence  was  attached  by 
the  recipient ;  and  an  opinion  prevailed  among  the 
more  ignorant  that  the  mission  of  the  <c  apostle  of 
temperance "  was  marked  by  many  miraculous  mani- 
festations of  the  assistance  of  heaven.  It  was  believed 
he  had  the  power  to  heal  diseases  and  preserve  his 
followers  from  all  spiritual  and  physical  dangers. 

The  association  included  a  large  proportion  of  the 
adult  population  of  Ireland,  without  regard  to  rank, 
creed,  or  sex ;  and  so  complete  was  the  revolution  in 
the  habits  of  the  people,  that  numerous  distilleries 
and  breweries  ceased  working.  Among  those  who 
suffered  loss  for  this  reason  were  the  members  of 
Father  Mathew' s  own  family,  who  were  largely  inter- 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  227 

ested  in  the  distilling  trade.  Father  Mathew  himself 
in  his  latter  years  was  pecuniarily  embarrassed  by 
engagements  into  which  he  entered  in  the  course  of 
his  philanthropic  labors.  Very  large  sums  of  money 
passed  through  his  hands,  but  the  munificence  of  his 
charities  and  the  enormous  expenses  connected  with 
his  various  missions,  and  perhaps  his  own  unworldly 
and  improvident  habits  involved  him  in  painful  diffi- 
culties. He  died  in  1856,  but  the  fruit  of  his  labors 
is  still  visible.  Many  of  those  enrolled  in  the  associa- 
tion have  not  kept  their  pledges,  yet  they  rarely  relapsed 
into  the  extreme  of  drunkenness,  and  the  general  tone 
of  public  opinion  as  regards  the  use  of  intoxicating 
drinks  underwent  a  complete  and  enduring  change. 
The  home  of  the  Luckawn  schoolmaster  was  a  half- 
mile  up  the  road  from  the  hovel  in  which  he  taught. 
In  outer  appearance  it  was  very  like  the  cottages  of 
his  neighbors  —  whitewashed  stone  with  a  thatch  roof. 
Inside  it  was  neater  than  the  average,  and  the  furniture 
was  better,  and  there  was  more  of  it.  Still,  the  house, 
in  all  its  belongings,  was  about  as  humble  as  it  could 
be  with  any  comfort.  Its  two  rooms  were  both  open 
to  the  rafters,  and  their  floors  were  of  uneven  cement. 
I  met  the  master's  half-dozen  children,  most  of  whom 
I  had  previously  seen  in  school,  and  I  met  his  wife, 
who  wore  over  her  head  a  kerchief  after  the  manner 
common   among  the   peasant  women   of  the   region. 


228  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

She  set  forth  a  lunch  for  the  master  and  me  in  the 
bedroom  adjoining  the  kitchen  —  tea,  and  goat's  milk, 
and  bread  with  caraway  seeds  in  it.  After  we  had 
eaten,  and  the  master  had  crossed  himself,  he  called  for 
his  pipe  and  sat  down  on  a  low  bench  by  the  kitchen 
fireplace  for  a  smoke.  That  finished,  he  was  ready  for 
a  walk. 

We  went  in  the  waning  evening  light  a  mile  or 
two  up  the  valley.  On  ahead,  looming  hazily  against 
the  horizon  sky,  was  one  blue  peak,  but  the  view  other- 
wise was  of  a  bogland  glen,  barren  and  craggy,  with  a 
little  river  wandering  through  it,  and  scattered  farm 
cabins  clinging  along  the  slopes.  The  master  had  a 
real  affection  for  the  valley,  and  was  continually  calling 
my  attention  to  some  phase  of  it  —  a  glimpse  of  the 
stream,  a  curve  of  the  road,  or  a  green  bush  on  a  hill- 
side —  and  asking  if  it  was  not  beautiful.  He  seemed 
to  be  convinced  that  few  landscapes  could  be  more  fair. 
We  talked  of  America,  and  we  talked  of  Ireland,  and 
we  talked  of  the  master's  own  trials  and  troubles.  He 
complained  resignedly  of  the  monotony  of  his  work, 
of  the  pay,  which  was  only  about  £Go  a  year,  and  of 
his  having  no  associates  but  his  few  books.  One  of 
these  books  which  had  recently  come  into  his  posses- 
sion was  a  cheap  reprint  of  Bacon's  "  Essays,"  and  he 
was  much  impressed  with  the  wisdom  of  the  old  phi- 
losopher and  his  quaint  but  forcible  expression. 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  229 

He  had  begun  teaching  when  he  was  eighteen,  and 
had  moved  about  here  and  there  through  the  country, 
teaching  ever  since.  The  buildings  he  had  taught  in 
varied.  Some  were  far  better  than  this  at  Luckawn, 
and  he  mentioned  one  fine  enough  to  cost  £100.  Cm 
the  other  hand,  in  his  earlier  experiences,  he  had  been 
much  worse  provided  for,  especially  those  times  when 
he  had  taught  a  "hedge"  school — that  is,  had  boarded 
around  at  the  cottages,  and  made  the  kitchen  of  what- 
ever house  he  happened  to  be  living  in  serve  for  a 
schoolroom. 

He  was  not  wholly  correct  in  his  use  of  the  term 
"  hedge  school."  The  real  article  dates  back  to  the 
days  of  William  of  Orange,  who,  having  found  the 
Catholics  in  Ireland  entirely  on  the  Stuart  side,  was 
moved  by  the  rancor  of  this  fact,  and  zeal  for  his  own 
religion,  to  make  Ireland  Protestant  by  penal  laws. 
Among  other  provisions  these  laws  excluded  the 
Catholics  from  the  army  and  navy,  the  magistracy, 
the  bar,  and  the  grand  juries.  They  could  not  be 
sheriffs  or  gamekeepers  or  constables,  and  were  for- 
bidden to  own  arms.  They  could  not  possess  a  horse 
worth  more  than  ^5,  and  any  Protestant  tendering 
that  sum  could  compel  his  Catholic  neighbor  to  sell  his 
steed.  Worst  of  all,  no  education  whatever  was  allowed 
to  Catholics.  A  Catholic  could  not  go  to  the  univer- 
sity, he  could  not  be  the  guardian  of  a  child,  or  keep 


230  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

a  school,  or  send  his  children  to  be  educated  abroad. 
The  list  of  partisan  and  oppressive  laws  was  a  long 
and  shameful  one,  and  it  was  all  too  rigorously  en- 
forced, but  the  country  clung  to  its  prescribed  faith 
nevertheless.  To  escape  the  ignorance  to  which  the 
people  were  condemned,  the  priests  established  what 
were  known  as  hedge  schools,  and  taught  the  children 
in  secret  by  the  roadsides,  on  the  hilltops,  and  behind 
stone  walls  and  hedgerows.  The  necessity  for  secrecy 
is  long  past,  but  there  have  been  many  schools  in 
the  nineteenth  century  existing  under  such  untoward 
circumstances  that  the  term  "  hedge  school "  could 
hardly  be  considered  a  misnomer.  Still,  it  commonly 
means,  as  used  now,  any  school  taught  in  a  very  rude 
place  never  intended  or  prepared  for  the  purpose. 

After  my  evening  walk  with  the  Luckawn  school- 
master, the  only  time  I  saw  him  was  several  days  later, 
when  I  called  one  afternoon  at  the  schoolhouse.  Les- 
sons were  over,  and  the  master  was  marking  in  the 
scholars*  books  their  tasks  for  the  morrow.  That 
finished,  he  told  them  to  "  Begone  !  " 

It  was  raining,  and  the  boys  put  on  their  caps  and 
buttoned  their  tattered  coats  closer,  and  the  girls  pulled 
their  faded  shawls  over  their  heads.  Then  they  all  ran 
out  into  the  storm  with  whoops  of  rejoicing.  The 
master  gave  me  the  one  chair.  On  his  desk  lay  a 
paper  printed  in  Irish.     "  Ah,"  he  remarked,  picking 


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5 

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I 
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A  Bogland  Schoolmaster  231 

it  up,  "  that  is  as  easy  to  me  as  English,"  and  he  read 
a  half-column  aloud,  in  proof  of  his  assertion.  He 
sometimes  wrote  for  the  paper  himself,  both  prose  and 
poetry,  he  confided,  taking  a  tin  snuff-box  from  his 
pocket  and  indulging  in  a  generous  pinch ;  and  he 
asked  what  I  thought  of  blank  verse,  double  rhymes, 
etc. 

At  present  he  was  composing  a  speech  and  a  long 
poem,  with  the  intention  of  journeying  to  Dublin  a 
month  or  two  later  to  recite  them  at  the  Annual  Irish 
Literary  Festival.  Perhaps  I  would  like  to  hear  them. 
He  was  evidently  much  pleased  when  I  affirmed  that  I 
would,  and  said  that  to  rehearse  them  before  a  stranger 
would  help  give  him  courage  for  the  great  occasion  to 
come.  He  cleared  his  throat  and  adjusted  a  red  hand- 
kerchief in  the  outer  breast  pocket  of  his  overcoat  so 
that  the  corner  showed ;  he  felt  of  his  necktie,  and  he 
pulled  his  spectacles  down  on  his  nose  from  where  they 
had  been  reposing  amid  the  ruffled  hair  on  the  top  of 
his  head.  Then  a  doubt  occurred  to  him.  "What  do 
you  think  ? ,!  he  inquired,  "  would  it  be  better  to  wear 
or  not  to  wear  specs  ?  " 

I  expressed  the  opinion  that  it  would  be  all  right 
either  way,  and  he  said  personally  he  preferred  to  wear 
them.  He  was  not  used  to  speaking  in  public,  and 
through  his  "specs"  he  saw  the  audience  more  dimly 
and  was  less  timid ;  but  he  believed  the  impression 


232  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

on  his  hearers  was  better  with  them  off.  The  latter 
thought  was  conclusive,  and  he  laid  them  on  his  desk. 
Then  he  drew  himself  together  and  began.  His  voice 
changed  with  the  changing  sentiments  of  the  words, 
but  his  prevailing  tones  were  gentle  and  melancholy. 
In  the  attitude  assumed  at  the  start  he  stood  looking 
straight  ahead,  with  hands  interlocked  and  at  rest  before 
him.  Gestures,  however,  soon  began  to  come  thick 
and  fast,  that  which  recurred  most  frequently  consisting 
in  clasping  one  or  both  hands  to  his  heart. 

The  speech  was  on  the  revival  of  the  Irish  language, 
the  poem  a  general  glorification  of  Erin.  At  least,  so 
the  master  described  them.  I  had  no  other  clew,  for 
they  were  in  the  ancient  Gaelic.  At  the  close  of  each 
peroration  he  inquired  with  concern,  Was  it  slow 
enough,  was  I  pleased  with  the  sound  of  it,  and  could 
I  tell  just  how  long  it  had  taken  by  my  watch. 

When  I  left  the  schoolhouse  a  little  later  I  bade  the 
schoolmaster  a  final  good-by,  and  the  next  morning  I 
resumed  my  journey  —  but  I  never  shall  forget  him. 
He  was  a  simple  and  earnest  soul,  mistaken  perhaps  in 
his  conception  of  the  necessity  of  sternness  and  violence 
in  teaching,  yet  at  heart  sound.  It  is  not,  however, 
so  much  the  teacher  that  I  recall  as  the  literary  enthu- 
siast and  scholar  rehearsing  his  Irish  speech  and  poem 
in  the  dusk  of  his  old  battered  schoolroom.  He  made 
a  pathetic  figure  —  tall  and  hollow-chested,  his  shabby 


A  Bogland  Schoolmaster 


*33 


clothes  hanging  limply  about  him,  and  in  his  eyes  a 
vague  far-away  look,  showing  that  in  spirit  he  was  de- 
claiming before  the  Dublin  audience.  After  all,  the 
golden  glow  of  hope  and  aspiration  can  shine  amid 
the  boglands  just  as  brightly  as  anywhere  else  in  the 
world. 


XII 

THE    GIANT'S    CAUSEWAY 


"^HE  most  primitive  elec- 
tric road  in  existence  is 
probably  an  eight-mile 
line  in  the  north  of  Ireland, 
connecting  Port  Rush  with  the 
Giant's  Causeway.  At  all  events, 
I  have  never  met  with  anything 
of  the  sort  slower  or  more 
clumsy.  Along  one  side  of  the 
track  runs  a  continuous  iron  rail 
about  two  feet  above  the  ground, 
from  which,  by  means  of  contact 
with  brushes  rubbing  its  surface, 
the  electric  current  is  conveyed 
to  the  machinery  of  the  cars. 
The  tramway  company  claim 
that  this  exposed  rail  is  harm- 
less, yet  warnings  are  posted  not  to  touch  it,  and 
the  local  inhabitants  declare  that  it  is  the  cause  of 
numerous   fatalities  to  man   and   beast,   and  that  the 

234 


A   Gatherer   of  Winkles   and   Limpets 


The  Giant's  Causeway  235 

danger  is  serious  and  ever  present.  The  truth  of  such 
stories  is  denied  by  the  railway  officials,  who  say  the 
fatalities  are  due  to  something  besides  electricity. 
Their  explanation  is  that  the  natives  along  the  route 
are  in  the  habit  of  bringing  out  their  sick  farm  animals, 
when  hope  of  recovery  is  past,  and  leaning  them 
against  the  electric  rail,  intending  to  have  the  creatures 
die  in  that  position,  and  give  their  owners  a  plausible 
claim  to  damages.  Whatever  the  facts,  the  device 
looked  crude  and  awkward  enough  to  be  capable  of 
all  the  mischief  attributed  to  it. 

The  tramway  trip  is  a  very  pleasant  one  in  fine 
weather.  For  a  large  part  of  the  distance  the  sea  is  in 
sight,  and  you  get  glimpses  of  many  great  chalk  cliffs 
fronting  the  ocean.  These  are  curiously  worn  by  the 
waves,  and  among  the  rest  of  Neptune's  fantastic  carv- 
ings, is  the  profile  of  a  gigantic  man's  head  wrought  on 
a  mighty  buttress  of  the  coast,  and  including  the  cliff's 
full  height.  There  are  the  forehead,  nose,  eye,  and  a 
laughing  mouth,  astonishingly  perfect,  while  the  sea 
foaming  at  the  neck  of  the  vast  head  is  very  like  the 
frill  of  an  old-fashioned  shirt  bosom. 

Another  striking  object  on  the  way  is  the  extensive 
ruin  of  Dunluce  Castle  perched  high  on  a  rugged 
promontory  of  black  basalt.  Dunluce  figures  in  the 
old  Irish  wars,  and  has  been  made  the  scene  of  a 
romantic  novel ;  but  the  incident  in  its  history  which 


2j6  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

gave  the  ruin  most  interest  to  me  was  the  story  of 
the  tragic  fall  of  a  portion  of  its  walls  in  1639,  carrying 
eight  servants  over  the  precipice  to  their  death.  I 
fancied  I  could  see  the  exact  part  of  the  castle  where 
this  casualty  had  occurred,  and  discern  the  scar  left 
on  the  cliffs  by  the  slipping  away  of  a  huge  mass 
of  the  rock  underlying  the  ancient  outlines  of  the 
building. 

The  Causeway  is  not  far  from  the  end  of  the  tram- 
route  ;  yet  on  a  hilltop  directly  in  the  path  thither 
stands  Mary  Jane  Kane's  Royal  Hotel,  by  far  the 
most  conspicuous  feature  of  the  landscape.  The  posi- 
tion of  the  hotel  seemed  to  thrust  on  me  the  duty  of 
engaging  lodging  there  before  I  went  farther.  This  I 
did,  and  found  the  hostelry  a  very  comfortable  one, 
though  the  "  Royal "  portion  of  its  name  was  not  as 
realistically  descriptive  of  it  as  the  "  Mary  Jane  Kane" 
part.  Indeed,  grandiloquent  titles  are  favorites  among 
the  Irish,  and  "  Royal  "  Hotels  and  "  Palace  "  Hotels 
are  as  likely  as  not  to  prove  the  opposite. 

To  get  to  the  Causeway  I  had  to  descend  a  long, 
steep  slope  at  the  back  of  the  hotel,  and  follow  the 
shore  half  a  mile  eastward.  On  the  way  I  loitered 
along  the  beach,  and  stopped  to  watch  some  boys  with 
forks  getting  kelp  from  among  the  rounded,  water- 
worn  boulders  that  strewed  the  shore.  They 
gathered  the  wet,  slippery  seaweed  into  several  great 


The  Giant's  Causeway  237 

heaps,  and  presently  loaded  it  on  a  heavy  farm  cart 
and  drove  off  up  the  steep  incline. 

Then  I  noticed  two  women  picking  about  among 
the  black  rocks  well  out  toward  the  sea.  One  was 
elderly,  and  the  other  young,  and  both  were  bareheaded, 
barefooted,  and  tattered.  I  was  curious  to  know  what 
they  were  doing,  but  at  my  approach  they  desisted 
from  their  work,  and  the  elder  of  the  two  sat  down 
and  did  her  best  to  look  melancholy.  The  other 
promptly  addressed  me,  and  said  her  companion,  or, 
to  use  her  words,  "  that  woman,"  was  her  mother,  a 
widow,  poor,  and  in  trouble,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
They  had  come  down  to  the  shore  this  morning  to 
get  dulse,  periwinkles,  and  limpets,  in  part  for  their 
own  eating,  and  in  part  to  sell.  Some  small  coins 
from  my  purse  assuaged  the  widow's  sorrows  for  the 
time  being,  and  cheered  the  daughter,  and  the  two 
resumed  their  search  for  humble  treasures  among  the 
pools  and  boulders. 

When  I  at  length  neared  the  Causeway  I  found  my 
path  intercepted  by  a  high  iron  fence,  and  I  could  go 
no  farther  save  by  paying  sixpence.  I  produced  the 
requisite  coin,  passed  through  a  turnstile,  and  had  the 
famous  specimen  of  Nature's  handiwork  immediately 
before  me.  After  all,  the  Causeway  in  itself  was  in 
no  wise  striking  or  imposing — just  a  low  rock  pier 
running  out  seaward  for  about  two  hundred  yards,  and 


238  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

descending  gradually  till  it  sank  below  the  waves. 
The  formation,  however,  made  it  strangely  impressive 
and  interesting,  for  it  is  composed  of  some  forty  thou- 
sand great,  upright,  stone  columns,  averaging  from 
fifteen  to  twenty  inches  in  diameter.  An  odd  charac- 
teristic of  the  pillars  is  that  they  are  in  joints  from 
one  to  two  feet  in  length,  compactly  fitted  together, 
the  upper  end  slightly  concave,  the  lower  slightly  con- 
vex. They  are  mostly  five,  six,  or  seven-sided,  but 
occasionally  you  find  those  with  four  or  eight  sides, 
while  a  very  few  are  nine-sided,  and  a  single  one  occurs 
which  is  triangular.  The  cracks  between  are  always 
distinct,  though  the  separation  is  so  slight  as  to  be 
almost  non-existent.  Taken  as  a  whole,  the  make-up 
of  the  Causeway,  in  its  dissimilarity  to  the  usual 
shapelessness  of  rock  formations,  is  very  suggestive 
of  a  Titanic  piece  of  mechanical  construction.  You 
can  easily  fancy  that  it  is  the  work  of  an  actual  flesh- 
and-blood  giant  of  the  past,  as  the  legend  states.  This 
personage,  Fin  MacCoul  by  name,  was  the  champion 
warrior  of  all  Ireland,  and  he  was  naturally  much  dis- 
turbed to  learn  that  a  certain  Scotch  giant,  safe  across 
the  channel,  was  given  to  boasting  he  would  swim 
over  and  give  Fin  a  drubbing  if  it  were  not  for  wet- 
ting himself.  Fin  could  not  abide  such  talk,  and  he 
fell  to  and  built  a  road  of  stone  straight  across  the 
channel,  that  the  braggart  might  have  no  further  excuse 


The  Giant's  Causeway  239 

for  not  coming  over  to  make  good  his  boasts.  A 
fight  ensued,  and  Fin  was  of  course  the  victor.  One 
would  have  thought  that  his  Causeway,  made  of  this 
almost  indestructible  basalt,  might  have  withstood  the 
ocean  storms,  and  lasted  entire  to  this  day,  but  the 
fragments  remaining  are  still  sufficient  to  give  color  to 
the  legend. 

Another  story  of  Fin  MacCoul,  which  seems  to  me 
particularly  entertaining,  relates  that  while  he  and  his 
gigantic  relatives  were  working  at  the  Causeway,  he 
took  a  notion  to  go  home  and  see  how  his  wife, 
Oonagh,  got  on  in  his  absence.  But  concern  for  his 
wife  was  not  his  only  reason  for  this  visit.  It  seems 
there  was  one  giant  in  the  world  of  whom  Fin  was 
afraid.  His  name  was  Cucullin,  and  such  was  his 
strength  that  the  stamp  of  his  foot,  when  vexed, 
shook  the  country  for  miles  around.  His  fame  had 
spread  far  and  wide,  and  it  was  said  that  nothing  in 
the  form  of  a  man  had  any  chance  in  a  fight  with  him. 
It  was  also  common  report  that  by  one  blow  of  his 
fist  he  had  flattened  a  thunderbolt,  and  this  thunder- 
bolt, shaped  like  a  pancake,  he  carried  around  with 
him  in  his  pocket  to  show  to  his  enemies  when  they 
were  about  to  fight  him.  He  had  given  every  giant  in 
Ireland,  excepting  Fin  MacCoul,  a  considerable  beating, 
and  he  swore  he  would  never  rest  night  or  day,  winter 
or  summer,  till  he  could  serve  Fin  with  the  same  sauce. 


240  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

Fin  had  hitherto  kept  dodging  about  from  place  to 
place,  as  often  as  he  got  word  that  Cucullin  was  on 
his  scent,  so  that  no  encounter  had  occurred ;  and  it 
was  chiefly  the  rumor  that  Cucullin  was  coming  to  the 
Causeway  to  have  a  trial  of  strength  with  him,  which 
resulted  in  his  being  seized  with  a  very  warm  and 
sudden  fit  of  affection  for  his  wife.  He  only  paused 
to  pull  up  a  fir  tree  and  lop  off  the  roots  and  branches 
to  make  himself  a  walking-stick,  and  then  set  out  for 
his  home  on  the  top  of  Knockmany  Hill. 

There  he  spent  two  or  three  happy  days  with 
Oonagh,  but  the  dread  of  Cucullin  grew  on  him  until 
his  wife  could  not  help  perceiving  that  something  lay 
on  his  mind,  which  he  was  keeping  altogether  to  him- 
self. Finally,  he  confessed  his  trouble,  and  added 
that  he  was  assured  Cucullin  would  shortly  follow 
him  from  the  Causeway  to  his  home. 

"Well,"  said  Oonagh,  "don't  be  cast  down;  depend 
on  me ; "  and  she  hastened  to  send  around  to  the 
neighbors,  and  borrow  a  score  or  so  of  iron  griddles. 
These  she  kneaded  into  the  hearts  of  as  many  cakes 
of  bread,  baked  the  cakes  on  the  fire,  and  set  them 
aside  afterward  in  the  cupboard. 

About  two  o'clock  the  next  day,  Cucullin  was  seen 
coming  across  the  valley,  and  Oonagh  immediately 
got  out  the  household  cradle,  and  had  Fin  lie  down  in 
it,  and   cover   himself  up  with  the  clothes.     "You 


The  Giant's  Causeway  241 

must  pass  for  your  own  child,"  she  told  him ;  "  so 
just  you  lie  there  snug,  and  say  nothing,  but  be 
guided  by  me." 

She  had  hardly  finished  tucking  Fin  in  the  cradle 
when  Cucullin  walked  in.  "  God  save  all  here  !  "  said 
he.     "  Is  this  where  the  great  Fin  MacCoul  lives  ?  " 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  Oonagh  replied.  "  God  save  you 
kindly  —  won't  you  be  sitting  ?  " 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  he,  taking  a  chair. 
cc  You're  Mrs.  MacCoul,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  was  the  response ;  "  and  I  have  no  reason, 
I  hope,  to  be  ashamed  of  my  husband." 

"  No,"  returned  the  other ;  "  he  has  the  name  of 
being  the  strongest  and  bravest  man  in  Ireland ;  but 
for  all  that,  there's  a  man  not  far  from  here  that's 
very  desirous  of  taking  a  shake  with  him.  Is  he 
at  home  ? " 

"  Why,  then,  no,"  she  declared ;  "  and  if  ever  a 
man  left  his  home  in  a  fury,  he  did.  It  appears  that 
someone  told  him  of  a  big  basthoon  of  a  giant  called 
Cucullin  being  down  at  the  Causeway  to  look  for  him, 
and  so  he  set  out  to  try  if  he  could  catch  him.  Troth, 
I  hope,  for  the  poor  giant's  sake,  he  won't  meet  him, 
for,  if  he  does,  Fin  will  make  paste  of  him." 

"  Aha  !  "  exclaimed  the  visitor,  "  I  am  Cucullin, 
and  I  have  been  seeking  Fin  these  twelve  months." 

"Did  you  ever  see  Fin?"  inquired  Oonagh. 

R 


242  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

"No." 

"  I  thought  so,  I  judged  as  much ;  and  if  you  take 
my  advice,  you'll  pray  night  and  day  that  you  never 
may  see  him ;  for  I  tell  you,  it  will  be  a  black  day  for 
you  when  you  do.  But  might  I  ask  you  to  favor  me 
with  a  little  help,  seeing  as  Fin's  not  here.  You  see, 
after  this  long  stretch  of  dry  weather  we've  had,  we're 
badly  off  for  want  of  water.  Now,  Fin  says  there's  a 
fine  spring-well  somewhere  under  the  crag  just  down 
the  hill,  and  it  was  his  intention  to  pull  the  rock 
asunder  and  find  it ;  but  when  he  heard  of  you,  he 
left  the  place  in  such  a  fury  he  never  thought  of  the 
water  I'm  needing,  and  if  you  would  be  so  good  as  to 
do  the  job,  I'd  feel  it  a  great  kindness." 

This  request  was  a  startler  to  Cucullin,  but  he 
arose  and  went  with  Oonagh  to  see  the  place,  and 
after  looking  at  it  for  some  time,  he  pulled  the  middle 
finger  of  his  right  hand  until  it  cracked  nine  times. 
Then  he  stooped,  and  tore  a  cleft  about  four  hundred 
feet  deep  and  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length,  which  has 
since  been  named  Lumford's  Glen. 

The  sound  of  rending  rocks  came  to  the  ears  of 
Fin,  lying  in  his  cradle,  and  made  the  perspiration 
start  from  every  pore  of  his  body ;  but  Oonagh  still 
kept  up  courage,  depending  on  her  woman's  wit  to 
carry  her  through. 

"  You'll  now  come  in,"  said  she  to  Cucullin,  "  and 


The  Giant's  Causeway  243 

eat  a  bit  of  such  humble  fare  as  we  can  give  you. 
Even  if  you  and  Fin  are  enemies,  I  am  sure  he  would 
have  me  treat  you  hospitably." 

Cucullin  entered  the  house  again,  and  she  placed 
before  him  half  a  dozen  of  the  special  cakes  she  had 
baked,  together  with  a  firkin  or  two  of  butter,  a  side 
of  boiled  bacon,  and  a  stack  of  cabbage. 

The  giant  put  one  of  the  cakes  in  his  mouth,  and 
took  a  huge  bite  out  of  it ;  and,  of  course,  his  teeth, 
much  to  their  detriment,  struck  the  gridiron.  "Blood 
and  thunder ! "  he  cried,  "  what  kind  of  bread  is  this 
you  gave  me  ?  " 

"  Why,"  replied  Oonagh,  calmly,  "that's  Fin's  bread 
—  the  only  bread  he  ever  eats  when  he's  at  home ; 
but,  indeed,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  nobody  can  eat 
it  but  himself,  and  that  child  in  the  cradle  there.  I 
thought,  however,  as  you  were  reported  to  be  rather  a 
stout  fellow  of  your  size,  you  might  be  able  to  manage 
it,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  affront  a  man  who  thinks 
himself  able  to  fight  Fin.  Here's  another  cake  that's 
maybe  a  bit  softer." 

Cucullin  took  the  second  cake,  and  nibbled  at  the 
edges.  It  seemed  to  be  all  right,  and  he  was  hungry. 
So  he  bit  vigorously  into  the  middle,  and  met  with 
the  same  painful  surprise  as  before.  It  made  him 
exclaim  loudly  and  wrathfully. 

"  Well,"  commented  Oonagh,  "  if  you're  not  able 


244  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

to  eat  the  bread,  say  so  quietly,  and  not  be  wakening 
the  child." 

At  this  juncture,  Fin  gave  a  skirl  that  made  the 
giant  visitor  jump,  coming,  as  it  did,  from  the  infant 
Fin  was  represented  to  be. 

"Arrah,  now,"  said  Oonagh,  "the  boy's  hungry;" 
and  she  went  over  and  put  into  his  hand  a  cake  which 
looked  like  those  she  had  set  before  Cucullin,  but 
which  lacked  the  griddle.  It  soon  disappeared,  much 
to  CuculJin's  astonishment,  who  secretly  thanked  his 
stars  that  he  had  missed  meeting  the  father  of  a 
child  who  could  eat  such  bread  as  that. 

"  I'd  like  to  take  a  glimpse  at  the  lad  in  the  cradle 
there,"  said  Cucullin  to  Oonagh  ;  "  for  I  can  tell  you 
that  the  infant  who  can  manage  the  like  of  that  nutri- 
ment is  no  joke  to  look  at,  or  to  feed  of  a  scarce 
summer ;  and  do  you  mind  if  I  just  take  a  feel  at  his 
teeth  before  I  go  ?  " 

"  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,"  Oonagh  responded ; 
"  only,  as  the  best  of  them  are  far  back  in  his  head, 
'twould  be  well  to  put  you  fingers  a  good  ways  in." 

This  was  Fin's  opportunity,  and  no  sooner  were 
the  fingers  of  Cucullin's  right  hand  in  his  mouth  than 
he  bit  off  the  middle  one,  on  which,  in  some  occult 
way,  his  enemy  was  wholly  dependent  for  his  strength. 
Then  Fin  leaped  from  his  cradle,  and  Cucullin  soon 
lay  before  him  a  corpse. 


The   Kitchen   Dresser 


The  Giant's  Causeway  245 

The  moral  of  this  story,  in  its  Irish  telling,  is  that, 
"the  women,  if  they  bring  us  into  many  an  unpleasant 
scrape,  can  sometimes  succeed  in  getting  us  out  of 
others  that  are  as  bad." 

At  the  time  of  my  visit  to  the  Causeway,  sea  pinks 
were  blossoming  in  the  crevices  of  the  pillars,  and 
where  it  joined  the  mainland  was  turf  sprinkled  with 
daisies  and  primroses.  There  were  lesser  piers  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  on  one  of  these  was  a  group 
of  columns  which  formed  a  chair,  mainly  used  by 
sentimental  maidens  for  wishing  purposes.  Every 
distinctive  feature  of  the  neighborhood  had  a  name, 
and  this  nearly  always  was  connected  with  the  giant  — 
as  the  giant's  organ,  chimneys,  spectacles,  pulpit,  etc. 
But  some  of  the  islets  offshore  had  names  wholly 
their  own,  and  their  own  legends,  likewise  —  Sheep 
Island,  for  instance  —  whereon  it  is  said  just  twelve 
sheep  can  be  pastured.  If  there  is  one  more  than 
that  number,  they  exhaust  the  feed  and  starve ;  if  one 
less,  they  die  from  overeating. 

Many  tourists  were  at  the  Causeway,  strolling  about, 
and  sitting  here  and  there  among  the  columns.  The 
waves  constantly  boomed  and  crashed  along  the  shore 
on  either  hand,  and  out  in  the  bay  several  cockleshell 
boats  with  their  sightseers  were  tossing,  now  rising  on 
the  swells,  now  sinking  out  of  sight,  as  if  to  be  en- 
gulfed.   These  boats  came  from  a  cove  near  the  hotel, 


246  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

and  the  passengers,  after  obtaining  a  sea  view  of  the 
lofty  coast  cliffs,  were  landed  at  the  Causeway.  One 
load  disembarked  while  I  was  there.  The  waves  ran 
high,  and  dashed  at  frequent  intervals  far  over  the 
jagged  rocks.  The  two  rowers  backed  cautiously 
toward  the  Causeway,  awaited  a  favorable  oppor- 
tunity, and  then  one  of  them  leaped  ashore.  But  a 
wave  came,  and  the  other  rower  had  to  pull  off,  while 
his  fellow  ran  up  the  rocks  to  escape  the  foaming  out- 
clutch  of  the  breaker.  Again  the  boat  backed,  and 
with  the  aid  of  the  man  on  shore  the  three  passen- 
gers, two  of  them  ladies,  were  hastily  jumped  from 
the  violently  heaving  craft  and  hurried  from  the  wet 
lower  rocks  to  safety  farther  up. 

Within  a  mile  of  the  Causeway  three  or  four  enor- 
mous pillared  promontories  jut  out  into  the  ocean,  and 
their  height  and  blackness  and  castellated  form  make 
the  scenery  very  wild  and  majestic.  The  likeness  of 
the  cliffs  to  human  masonry  is  in  certain  places  so 
wonderfully  close  that  one  is  quite  prepared  to  learn 
that  this  similitude  led  astray  here  a  warship  of  the 
ill-fated  Spanish  Armada.  The  captain  mistook  a 
group  of  shattered  columns  on  a  height  for  the  pin- 
nacles of  Dunluce  Castle,  and,  planning  his  course 
accordingly,  his  ship  went  ashore.  Four  only  of  the 
crew  escaped,  and  250  Spanish  sailors  lie  drowned  in 
the  little  creek  beside  the  Causeway.     In  commemo- 


The  Giant's  Causeway  247 

ration    of  this    disaster   the    bay   is    named    Port-na- 
Spania. 

When  I  left  the  shore  it  was  to  continue  east- 
ward by  a  narrow,  ascending  path  dug  in  the  face  of  a 
steep  slope.  In  places  the  path  encountered  slides  of 
loose  stones,  or  was  hollowed  out  of  the  volcanic  crags, 
and  portions  of  it  overhung  such  dizzy  depths  that 
signs  had  been  put  up  to  warn  pedestrians  of  danger. 
At  the  worst  points  a  wire  cable  was  fastened  along 
the  wall  for  the  explorer  to  grasp.  The  scenery 
among  these  high  precipices  was  on  a  huge  scale,  and 
stirred  the  imagination  much  more  powerfully  than 
the  view  from  the  Causeway.  Above  were  the  but- 
tresses of  gray  columns ;  down  below,  the  sea,  assault- 
ing in  vain  the  cliffs'  hard,  black  foundations  that  had 
been  fused  by  enormous  heat  into  an  adamant  defying 
destruction. 

But  as  soon  as  I  attained  the  summit  of  the 
heights  the  aspect  of  nature  underwent  an  entire 
change.  The  landscape  became  wholly  tranquil  and 
pastoral,  and  round  about  were  cultivated  farmlands, 
sweeping  away  in  gentle  undulations  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach.  Underneath  the  soil,  however,  was  the 
basalt  which  forms  the  Causeway.  It  outcrops  for  a 
long  distance  on  the  Irish  north  coast,  and  in  the 
ancient  'geological  era,  when  it  was  deposited,  its 
burning  lava  overflowed  twelve  hundred  square  miles, 


248  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

and  buried  the  tract  from  ten  to  a  thousand  feet 
deep. 

A  few  days  at  the  Causeway  sufficed,  and  then  I 
journeyed  inland  one  Sunday  afternoon  to  Ballymoney. 
Like  most  Ulster  towns,  Ballymoney  has  a  large 
Scotch  population,  which,  I  suppose,  accounted  for  its 
Sabbath  air  of  quiet ;  for  the  Scotch  observe  the  day 
much  more  soberly  and  religiously  than  the  Irish. 
At  the  little  hotel  where  I  stopped  in  quest  of  lodg- 
ing, the  parlor  was  occupied  by  a  gray-bearded  man 
and  a  sharp-featured  old  woman.  The  former  sat  by 
the  fire  with  one  eye  to  a  hand-glass,  reading  a  paper. 
The  latter  was  at  the  table,  leaning  over  a  great  family 
Bible  outspread  before  her.  My  impression  had  been 
that  family  Bibles  were  for  ornamenting  the  best  room, 
rather  than  for  reading;  but  this  one  showed  the 
marks  of  being  much  used.  I  asked  if  I  could  get 
a  room  for  the  night. 

"  Ye  can  if  ye  are  ceevil,"  replied  the  woman,  look- 
ing at  me  over  her  spectacles. 

I  promised  to  be  that,  and  she  agreed  to  take  me 
in,  though  not  without  some  preliminary  questioning 
about  my  business,  to  satisfy  herself  that  I  was  no 
tramp  or  desperado.  This  matter  being  settled,  I 
went  for  a  walk,  and  did  not  return  till  toward  even- 
ing. The  landlady  was  then  hustling  around  getting 
my  supper ;  but  the  gray-haired  man  still  sat  by  the 


The  Giant's  Causeway  249 

fire,  with  one  eye  applied  assiduously  to  the  hand- 
glass. 

After  I  had  eaten  and  a  youthful  maid  had  carried 
away  the  dishes,  I  drew  my  chair  up  to  the  fireplace, 
and  the  landlady  brought  me  a  pair  of  ragged,  worsted 
slippers.  She  insisted,  in  her  roughly-kind  Scotch 
way,  that  I  should  take  off  my  shoes,  put  on  the 
slippers,  and  make  myself  comfortable.  That  attended 
to,  she  sat  down,  and  we  began  a  conversation  which 
soon  resulted  in  rousing  the  man  with  the  hand-glass 
to  take  part.  It  seemed  that  he  was  a  boarder,  an 
Irish  Protestant,  and  I  was  particularly  interested  in 
his  comments  on  the  relations  of  the  religious  sects 
in  Ireland,  for  he  spoke  intelligently,  without  bitter- 
ness or  intolerance.  I  would  not  vouch  for  all  his 
theories,  yet  in  large  part  they  agreed  with  my  own 
conclusions,  drawn  from  what  I  had  observed  in  my 
travels. 

He  said  that  the  Catholics  and  Protestants  in  the 
north,  while  not  warm  friends,  got  along  together 
very  peaceably  of  recent  years.  You  would  rarely 
hear  of  serious  outbreaks,  or  any  marked  display  of  ill- 
will.  When  there  was  trouble  it  was  due  to  the  roughs 
of  either  party,  not  to  the  rank  and  file.  Drunkenness 
was  the  most  common  cause  of  belligerency.  The 
truth  of  a  man's  particular  form  of  religion  never  came 
home  to  him  so  strongly  as  it  did  when  he  was  intoxi- 


250  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

cated,  and  he  would  just  as  soon  prove  his  loyalty  to 
his  own  faith  and  his  abhorrence  of  others'  errors  with 
blows  as  not.  Of  the  feeling  that  exists  among  the 
ruder  elements  of  society  one  obtains  an  inkling  by 
studying  the  scribblings  in  the  railway  carriages.  The 
Pope  gets  a  curious  intermingling  of  curses  and 
blessings  in  these  shaky  pencillings,  and  the  name 
of  King  William  is  visited  with  like  adoration  and 
obloquy. 

Intermarriage  between  the  Scotch  and  Irish  was  for- 
merly not  infrequent ;  but  the  priests  of  late  years  will 
not  allow  the  members  of  their  flocks  to  go  astray  in 
that  way.  As  a  rule,  Protestants  trade  with  Protestants 
at  the  town  shops,  and  Catholics  with  Catholics ;  yet 
this  is  the  natural  drift  of  like  to  like,  and  there  is 
little  religious  significance  in  the  fact.  The  drinking- 
places  are  generally  in  the  hands  of  the  Catholics ;  but 
otherwise  the  Protestants  control  nearly  all  the  larger 
business  interests.  Prosperity  inclines  more  toward 
the  latter  than  toward  the  former,  and  the  Catholics 
all  over  Ireland  represent  in  the  main  the  poorer  and 
more  ignorant  classes.  The  Irish  are  as  quick-witted 
and  as  capable  as  any  race ;  but  they  are  in  the  power 
of  the  priests,  and  their  religion  seems  to  narrow  rather 
than  broaden  their  intelligence.  In  the  Protestant 
churches  thought  is  stimulated,  and  discussion  and 
disagreement  are  always  rife.     There  is  more  harmony 

fvtc 


The  Giant's  Causeway  251 

in  the  Catholic  churches,  but  it  proceeds  from  intel- 
lectual stagnation. 

In  education,  even  where  the  natural  advantages  are 
the  same,  the  Catholic  schools  are  inferior.  The  repu- 
tation of  some  of  the  private  schools  at  monasteries 
and  convents  is  excellent,  but  the  public  schools  under 
Catholic  auspices  are  rarely  as  well  taught  or  have  as 
good  books  as  those  of  the  Protestants. 

It  is  the  misfortune  of  the  Irish  to  be  much  addicted 
to  the  drink  habit ;  and  while  the  attitude  of  the  Church 
is  less  favorable  to  the  liquor  interests  than  it  once  was, 
its  efforts  for  temperance  are  scattering  and  not  often 
very  strenuous.  This  is  to  be  expected  where  nearly 
all  the  clergy  are  themselves  drinkers,  and  very  many 
of  them  are  the  sons  of  liquor-dealers.  Indeed,  it  is 
something  of  a  custom  among  Catholic  dram-sellers, 
where  there  are  a  number  of  sons  in  a  family,  to  edu- 
cate one  of  them  for  the  priesthood.  Drinking  among 
women  is  believed  to  be  increasing.  They  do  not 
often  go  openly  to  the  saloons,  but  buy  their  liquor  at 
the  groceries,  and  consume  it  at  home. 

A  peasant  with  ambition  to  gain  wealth  likes  nothing 
better,  after  getting  a  little  capital  by  scrimping  and 
saving,  than  to  start  a  small  shop.  In  addition  to 
buying  and  selling,  he  makes  small  loans,  and  charges 
a  high  rate  of  interest  both  on  money  lent  and  on 
unpaid  bills.     His  patrons  are  improvident  enough 


252  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

not  to  mind  the  per  cent  charged  if  they  get  credit  for 
present  needs.  They  are  optimistic,  and  have  no 
doubt  of  their  ability  to  pay  later.  The  racial  opti- 
mism finds  another  illustration  in  the  freedom  with 
which  the  farmers  go  on  each  others'  notes.  The 
business  relations  of  neighbors  become  so  entangled 
that  when  one  fails  it  means  the  ruin  of  several.  The 
average  native's  lack  of  judiciousness  is  distinctly 
shown  when  you  ask  his  opinion  about  the  weather 
prospects,  or  inquire  the  distance  to  some  place  to 
which  you  are  travelling.  He  nearly  always  encour- 
ages you  with  cheerful  prophecies  as  to  the  weather, 
and  diminishes  the  miles  that  lie  before  you  amazingly. 
This  is  a  pleasant  sort  of  failing,  but  such  mental 
aberration  does  not  make  for  success  and  thrift. 

Yet  the  condition  of  Ireland  has  been  improving  for 
years  past.  The  law-makers  have  studied  the  country 
with  honest  intent  to  learn  its  real  needs  and  apply 
remedies,  and  the  people  themselves  have  been  gradu- 
ally improving  in  agriculture,  and  are  learning  to  adapt 
themselves  to  the  needs  of  modern  commerce.  In 
1 841  the  island  had  a  population  of  eight  millions. 
Now,  owing  to  the  immense  outflow  of  emigrants,  there 
are  not  much  more  than  half  that  number.  The  decline 
is  not  due  to  English  oppression,  but  has  occurred  be- 
cause the  people  have  been  almost  wholly  dependent 
on  the  soil,  because  farms  were  small,  the  system  of 


Spring   Flowers 


The  Giant's  Causeway  253 

agriculture  poor,  and  because  it  has  been  impossible  to 
meet  the  competition  resulting  from  the  development 
of  the  new  lands  in  North  and  South  America  and  in 
Australia.  The  farmers,  not  only  in  Ireland,  but  in 
all  the  older  countries,  have  seen  hard  times.  This  is 
true  of  England  and  Scotland  and  the  continent,  and, 
as  well,  of  the  longer-settled  portions  of  America. 
Values  have  kept  dropping  both  in  products  and  in 
land. 

Ireland  has  never  been  and  probably  never  will  be  a 
manufacturing  country.  It  possesses  certain  large  brew- 
ing and  distilling  interests,  and  some  cloth  mills,  but 
it  is  handicapped  by  its  lack  of  coal  deposits,  lack  of 
capital  and  skilled  workmen,  and  its  tendency  to  tur- 
bulence. Without  question  it  has  resources  yet  unde- 
veloped ;  nevertheless,  whatever  affluence  it  wins  must 
come  through  farming  rather  than  manufacturing.  The 
prospect  would  be  brighter  were  it  not  that  one-seventh 
of  the  island's  surface  is  covered  with  bogs.  Their 
dampness  is  a  potent  cause  of  rheumatism,  but  they 
are  not  otherwise  unhealthy,  and  exhale  no  miasma. 
However,  no  cultivation  of  their  soil  can  possibly 
yield  more  than  a  scanty  livelihood,  and  they  are 
over-populated.  Aside  from  the  boglands,  Irish  soil 
has  great  natural  productiveness,  and  the  climate  is  so 
mild  and  the  fertilizing  rains  so  frequent  that  agriculture 
should  have  a  future  of  at  least  moderate  prosperity. 


254  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

In  their  way,  the  people  of  Erin  have  a  genius  for 
politics  —  a  fact  perhaps  more  fully  realized  in  our 
American  cities  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world  ;  but 
in  no  other  nationality  do  men  attain  position  and 
power  so  little  by  solid  ability  and  judicial  poise,  and 
so  much  by  wire-pulling  and  imaginative  fluency.  A 
man  with  a  racy  tongue  and  a  plausible  way  of  putting 
things  easily  wins  wide  influence  over  the  masses,  and 
sways  them  as  he  wills.  Under  the  circumstances,  my 
Irish  acquaintance  at  the  Ballymoney  hotel  thought 
that  home  rule  would  mean  chaos.  One  may  not 
wholly  agree  with  him  in  this  or  his  other  conclusions, 
but  his  views  are  certainly  suggestive. 

On  Monday  morning  I  walked  out  into  the  country 
a  few  miles  and  visited  a  farmhouse  once  occupied  by 
the  ancestors  of  our  American  President  McKinley. 
The  dwelling  was  a  humble  one-story  building  of 
whitewashed  stone,  with  a  roof  of  thatch.  In  its  far 
end  were  the  cowsheds.  Two  or  three  great  stacks 
of  peat  were  piled  in  the  dooryard,  and  the  house 
interior  was  as  primitive  as  these  accessories.  The 
kitchen,  with  its  broad  fireplace  and  stone  floor,  was  in 
wild  disorder.  A  great  churn  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  a  baby  was  creeping  about  underfoot,  a  girl 
bending  over  a  piggin  set  in  a  chair  was  washing 
dishes,  and  a  dishevelled  woman  was  attending  a  black 
pot  hung  over  the  peat  fire.     Pretty  soon  the  man  of 


The  Giant's  Causeway  255 

the  house  appeared  and  collected  toll  of  me,  explaining 
that  this  was  customary,  and  that  he  expected  to  make 
a  good  deal  of  money  out  of  the  place,  showing  it  to 
American  visitors.  The  most  interesting  information 
he  had  to  impart  was  that  one  of  the  ancestral  Mc- 
Kinleys  was  "  hung  from  the  house  "  a  hundred  years 
ago. 

I  started  back  to  Ballymoney  presently,  and  later 
the  same  day  went  on  to  Antrim  for  the  special  pur- 
pose of  seeing  the  Irish  Round  Tower  there.  It 
stands  in  the  park  of  a  gentleman's  estate,  and  is  a 
very  perfect  specimen,  tall  and  slender,  and  gently 
tapering  upward  from  a  basal  diameter  of  seventeen 
feet.  In  1822  lightning  shattered  its  lofty  shaft,  but  it 
has  since  been  repaired,  and  is  essentially  the  same  as 
when  it  was  first  built.  It  reaches  far  above  the  tree- 
tops  ;  for  the  apex  of  the  conical  roof  by  which  it  is 
crowned  is  ninety  feet  above  the  greensward  at  the  foot 
of  the  column.  A  number  of  low  windows  occur  at 
intervals  all  the  way  up,  and  at  the  very  top  are  four, 
one  looking  toward  each  point  of  the  compass.  The 
only  entrance  is  a  door  about  ten  feet  from  the  ground, 
and  as  the  wall  below  is  perfectly  blank  I  had  no 
chance  to  get  a  glimpse  inside. 

Some  jackdaws  were  fluttering  around  the  summit 
and  in  and  out  the  vacant  loopholes,  and  I  fancied 
they  might  have  traditions  of  the  uses  of  the  old  tower 


1^6  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 

more  authentic  than  any  which  have  come  down  to  us 
in  history  ;  for  no  human  being  now  knows  surely 
what  were  the  original  aims  of  these  curious  construc- 
tions. Cut  in  the  stone  over  the  door  is  a  cross  en- 
closed in  a  circle,  and  at  the  top  of  the  tower  are  the 
remains  of  a  beam  on  which  it  seems  likely  a  bell 
sometime  swung.  These  things  would  indicate  that 
the  tower's  later  use,  at  least,  was  for  Christian  pur- 
poses. Indeed,  the  theory  most  generally  accepted  is 
that  the  round  towers  were  religious  in  their  use  from 
the  first.  They  date  back  nearly  one  thousand  years, 
and  have  been  in  all  cases  in  the  immediate  neighbor- 
hood of  a  church  or  monastery.  Like  other  early 
church  towers,  it  is  assumed  that  they  were  symbols 
of  dignity.  That  they  served  at  the  same  time  as 
watch  towers  and  beacons,  and  were  used  as  strong- 
holds in  times  of  danger,  seems  also  probable.  They 
could  not  be  burned  down  like  the  timber  churches 
and  wattled  cabins  of  the  early  days,  and  it  is  believed 
that  during  sudden  raids  they  afforded  places  of  security 
for  the  ecclesiastics  and  to  some  extent  for  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  country  around.  After  the  introduction 
of  bells  they  are  supposed  to  have  been  used  as  bell- 
towers  to  call  students  to  school  and  the  faithful  to 
prayer. 

There  are  more  than  one  hundred  round  towers  in 
Ireland,  about   twenty   of  them  entire,  or   nearly  so. 


The  Giant's  Causeway  257 

The  latter  are  usually  not  far  from  eighty  feet  high, 
and  as  a  rule  are  capped  by  a  conical  roof,  and  divided 
into  stories.  Immediately  beneath  the  roof  are  four 
small  windows,  and  a  single  narrow  aperture  affords 
light  for  each  story  below.  Floors  of  masonry  yet 
exist  in  some  of  the  towers,  though  oftener  the 
floors  have  been  of  wood,  and  long  since  fallen. 
Ladders  were  the  means  of  communication  from  story 
to  story.  The  door  was  nearly  always  at  a  consider- 
able height  above  the  ground,  and  here,  too,  a  ladder 
wras  the  only  means  of  ascending  and  descending,  and 
when  this  ladder  was  drawn  up  into  the  tower,  the 
inmates  were  as  snug  and  safe  as  they  could  desire. 

Antrim  was  my  last  stop  in  Ireland  of  any  conse- 
quence, and  one  evening  I  embarked  at  Larne  to  cross 
the  Irish  Sea.  I  watched  the  low  green  hills  fade  in 
the  steamer's  wake  into  indistinct  gray,  and  then  went 
below  to  escape  the  cold  wind  that  swept  the  decks, 
and  the  salt  spray  that  now  and  then  came  spattering 
across  the  planking  from  the  plunging  bow.  The 
tour  had  been  replete  with  varied  experiences,  and  was 
of  never-failing  interest ;  and  I  carried  away  with  me 
a  most  pleasing  memory  of  warm-hearted  Irish  hospi- 
tality, while,  in  a  sober  way,  the  island's  scenery  had 
great  charm  in  all  its  changes  —  from  the  placid,  fertile 
south  to  the  wild  boglands  and  rude  grandeur  of  the 
coast  along  the  west  and  north.     To  be  sure  the  Isle 


258 


The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock 


of  the  Shamrock  has  its  drawbacks,  and  it  does  not 
wholly  win  a  stranger's  affections,  yet  I  cannot  but 
wish  that  its  future  may  realize  all  the  brightness  for 
which  its  scattered  sons  and  daughters  hope. 


Among   English   Hedgerows 

By  Clifton  Johnson 

With  an  Introduction  by  Hamilton  W.  Mabie 
Fully  Illustrated.      Crown  8vo,      Gilt  top.     Boxed.     $2.2$ 


One  of  the  most  beautiful  of  illustrated  books.  The 
author  as  far  as  possible  lived  the  life  of  the  people  who 
figure  in  these  pages,  and  we  have  delightful  accounts  of 
village  characters  and  glimpses  of  quaint  old  English  homes. 

u  The  book  deserves  to  succeed,  not  only  in  America, 
but  in  the  country  which  it  so  lovingly  depicts." 

—  The  Spectator,  London. 

"The  style  is  direct  and  unpretending,  and  the  author 
succeeds  in  imparting  his  own  enjoyment  of  scenes  and 
characters  to  his  readers."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  One  of  the  best  descriptions  of  rural  England  which 
ever  has  appeared."  —  Congregationalist. 


The  Macmillan  Company 
66  Fifth  Avenue,       -  New  York 


Along   French   Byways 

By  Clifton  Johnson 

Uniform  with   "  The  Isle  of  the  Shamrock' '   and 
"Among  English  Hedgerows' ' 

Fully  Illustrated.      Crown  8vo.      Gilt  top.      Boxed.     $2.25 


"  Mr.  Johnson's  book  is  of  a  peculiarly  winning  sort. 
We  know  of  no  other  which  describes  with  so  much 
homely  simplicity  and  sympathetic  pleasantness  the  rural 
life  of  the  fair  land  of  France."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Gives  a  singularly  faithful  and  complete  and  well- 
balanced  idea  of  the  French  peasantry  and  French  rural 
life,  manners,  and  customs."  —  Boston  Herald. 

"  A  treasure  in  the  literature  of  travel." 

—  Universalist  Leader. 

"  Mr.  Johnson  has  both  the  gift  of  sympathy  and  the 
gift  of  observation ;  he  knows  how  to  reach  the  people 
whom  he  wants  to  describe.  His  book  has  the  charm  of 
simplicity  and  of  sympathy  with  humble  but  picturesque 
life  in  a  very  picturesque  country."  —  The  Outlook, 


The  Macmillan  Company 
66  Fifth  Avenue,       -  New  York 


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